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natsaffection · 4 months ago

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heyyy so i have this idea and i think no one can write it like you so yeah.

forced marriage between Natasha and reader in the present time. they both don't like each other because of this situation yk but with time they come around each other.

i know this is a really classic one but I've been thinking about this for a long time and sending a request to you seemed like a good idea considering your beautiful writing. but of course it's okay if you don't want to write it! hope you're having a good day!!! (or night idk😭😭) 💗

I see you. | N.R

Warnings: Forced Marriage for a Mission, a lot of arguments, Drinking, mentioned of sex while beeing drunk (both)

Word count: 6,7k

A/n: I hope it makes sense. I thought for a long time about how best to implement this scenario and found this solution to be the most plausible..(The beginning takes place before the invasion of Loki)

Natasha sat stiffly, her gaze sharp and unforgiving, fixed on the man sitting across from her. Nick leaned back in his chair, his one good eye studying her with an intensity that matched her own. “So, what’s this about, Fury?” Natasha’s voice was as cold as the steel walls surrounding them in the underground briefing room of the Avengers headquarters. She had been urgently summoned, pulled out of a mission briefing that had been weeks in the making, and the weight of this interruption hung heavy in the air.

Fury exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming on the edge of the sleek metal table. The silence stretched just long enough that Natasha’s patience nearly snapped. “It’s about alliances.” he finally said, his tone measured, as if he was still deciding how much to reveal. Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “I thought we had our alliances sorted out. Stark has the tech, Banner is working on the gamma projects, and I’m ready to handle the intel with Rogers. What’s missing?”

Fury’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he leaned forward, his hands tightly clasped together as if preparing for what he was about to say. “What’s missing is political stability. The kind that can’t be bought with technology or power. We need trust, and that’s in short supply these days.”

“Trust?” Natasha scoffed. “From whom? What aren’t you telling me?” He met her gaze, unwavering. “There’s a situation with Y/n.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed slightly. The name struck a nerve. You were no stranger in her world. Known for your diplomatic skills and sharp intellect, you were a key figure in international negotiations, often brokering deals that kept the world from chaos. You weren’t just a diplomat, you were a force, wielding influence in ways even Natasha respected. But that didn’t explain why you were the subject of this mysterious meeting.

“And what does that have to do with us?” Natasha asked, her voice low and laced with suspicion. Fury’s next words fell like a hammer. “You’re going to marry her.” For a moment, the words didn’t register. Natasha stared at Fury, waiting for the punchline to a joke that never came. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me right, Romanoff." Fury replied, his tone unyielding. “This marriage is the only way to secure the alliance we need. Your influence can grant us access to certain..resources and information that we desperately need. This goes beyond SHIELD, it’s about global security.”

Natasha leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you think a forced marriage is magically going to solve all these problems?”

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy.” Fury admitted. “But this isn’t about love or personal happiness. It’s about necessity. We need a visible, undeniable alliance, something that other nations and organizations can see and recognize as a commitment. A marriage between you and Y/L/N would achieve that.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. She was a soldier, a spy, a warrior..she had never allowed anyone to dictate the terms of her life, let alone something as personal as marriage. The very idea was repugnant to her, and yet..Fury’s expression told her this wasn’t just an idea, it was an order. The stakes were high, as they always were in her line of work, but this felt different. This felt personal in a way she hadn’t expected.

“And what makes you think she’ll agree to this?” Natasha asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. She wasn’t ready to show more emotion than necessary. “She’s already agreed.” Fury said, and Natasha felt the ground shift beneath her feet. “She understands how important this alliance is. She’s as reluctant as you are, but she knows what’s at stake.”

Natasha let that sink in for a moment. She didn’t know you well, but she knew of you, respected you even. You were someone who didn’t back down easily, who saw through lies and acted on your convictions. If you had agreed, then the situation was worse than Natasha had thought.

“And if I refuse?” she asked, though she knew the answer, but she needed to hear it. Fury’s expression hardened. “You won’t refuse. You’re too smart for that, Natasha. You know what’s at stake. You’ve always done what was necessary.”

Natasha exhaled slowly, her mind racing. She didn’t want this, she didn’t want to be tied down by something as archaic as marriage, especially not to someone she barely knew. But Fury was right. She had always done what was necessary, no matter the cost. And this, it seemed, was just another mission, one that would require all her skills to navigate.

“Fine..” she said finally, her voice clipped. “I’ll do it. But don’t expect me to play the happy housewife.” Fury almost smiled, but it was a cold, thin smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Natasha’s mind raced as she left the cold, sterile briefing room. Fury’s words echoed in her ears, a reminder that her life was no longer entirely her own. As she walked through the corridors of the SHIELD headquarters, her footsteps echoed ominously, each step bringing her closer to a fate she hadn’t chosen.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, pulling her out of her thoughts. It was a message from Fury again:

Meeting with Y/N in conference room in five minutes. Be there.

No time to think, no time to prepare. Typical. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before heading to the designated room. Natasha arrived at the conference room a few minutes early. The room was empty, the lights dimmed, casting long shadows across the table. It felt oddly impersonal, a stark contrast to the gravity of what was about to be discussed. She stood by the window, staring out at the headquarters’ grounds, trying to gather her thoughts.

The door opened behind her, and Natasha turned as you entered the room. You were dressed in a tailored suit, exuding the same sovereign confidence that had made you a respected figure in the diplomatic world. But there was something else in your eyes. A hint of irritation, maybe even anger. Clearly, you weren’t any happier about this situation than she was.

“Natasha.” you greeted her with a curt nod, your voice cool and distant. “Y/n.” Natasha replied just as coolly. She crossed her arms and leaned against the windowsill, her eyes narrowing as she studied the person in front of her. “So, I guess we’re getting married.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Looks that way. Not that either of us had a choice.” Natasha raised an eyebrow. “And whose fault is that? If you and your people hadn’t been so secretive, we might not be in this mess.” Your face hardened, a flicker of anger crossing your features. “Oh, please. Don’t act like SHIELD is any better. You’re all about secrets and manipulation. This marriage is just another one of your little games.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed further. “You think I want this? To be tied to someone I barely know, just to fulfill a political agenda? Don’t kid yourself.”

“Kid myself?” You scoffed and took a step closer, your voice rising. “Do you think it’s any easier for me? Being forced to marry the Black Widow, of all people? I know your reputation, Natasha. You’re a manipulator, a killer. This is the last thing I wanted.” Natasha’s jaw clenched, her anger boiling up. “And what about you? You’re no saint either, Y/n. You’ve played your games, made your deals behind closed doors, pulled strings to get what you want. Don’t pretend you’re any better.”

Anger flashed in your eyes. “At least I don’t hide behind a mask of false righteousness. I do what needs to be done for the greater good, just like you. But don’t mistake necessity for desire. I have no interest in playing house with someone who doesn’t even know what trust means.”

Natasha felt a sharp sting of anger mixed with something else, something she didn’t want to name. “Trust? That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve built your career on deception. And now you expect me to believe you’re the victim here?” You stepped closer, your voice low and sharp. “I don’t care what you believe. We’re both victims of this situation, but if you think I’m just going to roll over for you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Natasha’s anger flared again, her voice turning icy. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s get one thing straight, I’m not here to make you happy. This is a business arrangement, nothing more. We’ll play the part when necessary, but other than that, stay out of my way.”

For a moment, they stood facing each other, only inches apart, the tension crackling between them like a live wire. Finally, Natasha turned away, breaking the tense silence. She moved to the table and sat down, forcing herself to focus. “Let’s talk logistics. The sooner we get this sorted, the sooner we can get it over with.”

You took a deep breath, regaining your composure, and sat down across from her. “Agreed. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Natasha shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I have an apartment in Brooklyn. It’s secure, and there’s enough space for both of us without stepping on each other’s toes. We can start moving your things tomorrow.” Your eyes narrowed. “Brooklyn? How convenient for you. Always need to have the home-field advantage, don’t you?”

Natasha offered a crooked smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m practical. It’s close to headquarters, and it’s safe. Unless you have a better suggestion?” Your lips pressed into a thin line, clearly dissatisfied but unwilling to argue further. “Fine. But don’t expect me to play the obedient spouse. I need my space, my own office, my own schedule.”

“Fine.” Natasha responded sharply. “I don’t want you around me all the time anyway. We’ll do what’s necessary to make this look real, public appearances, a few shared events, then back to our own lives.” You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “And what about the media? They’re going to follow us everywhere, looking for any crack in the facade.”

Natasha waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll handle it. Stick to the script, and we won’t have any problems. There’s no need to make this more complicated than it needs to be.” You remained unconvinced. “You’re acting like this is so simple. But we both know there’s nothing simple about this.”

Natasha’s eyes hardened. “We don’t have a choice, Y/n. We do this because we have to, not because we want to.” Your jaw clenched, your voice turning icy. “Believe me, Natasha, the last thing I want is for this to work. But I’ll do what needs to be done. Just don’t expect anything more from me.” The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the weight of your mutual dislike hanging heavy in the air. This was going to be a nightmare..

In this silent moment, an agent came in with a pile of paper stuff. He sensed the tension immediately and just put it on the table and quickly left the room.

Thebtable was now filled with details on how your upcoming marriage would be presented to the world. It was an intricately crafted plan, covering everything from the official story of how you met to the timeline of your relationship and your behavior in public. Every detail had been meticulously planned by SHIELD’s PR team to ensure that the marriage appeared genuine.

You flipped through the pages with a grim expression, your fingers gripping the edges of the paper as if you wanted to tear them apart. “This is ridiculous..” you muttered, not bothering to hide your frustration. “They expect us to memorize a script? Like we’re actors playing a part?”

Natasha, sitting across from you, “That’s exactly what we are.” she said coolly. “This isn’t a real marriage, remember? We’re playing a role for the public.”

You shot her a sharp look. “I’m well aware. But this..” you gestured contemptuously at the file “is insulting. ‘Shared interest in global politics and mutual respect for each other’s abilities’? Really?” You read the lines aloud, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’re acting like we’re two diplomats who fell in love over a discussion on trade agreements.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you prefer they invent a fairy tale romance? At least this version is believable. It’s not like we have a real story to fall back on.”

You slammed the file shut with a loud bang that echoed in the small room. “We wouldn’t need to make anything up if we weren’t being forced into this situation.” Natasha’s jaw tightened. “No one’s forcing you to stay. If you have a better solution, by all means, let me know.”

You sighed in frustration, rubbing your temples. “You know as well as I do that there isn’t one! Fury made sure of that.” Natasha watched you silently for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Then we make the best of it. We memorize the script, play the show, and get it over with.”

You looked up at her, your eyes flashing with anger. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re used to lying, aren’t you? Playing different roles, lying to people’s faces. But this..this isn’t just another mission, Natasha. This is our lives.”

Natasha's eyes hardened at the accusation. "You think I don't know that? You think I enjoy being paraded around like a puppet? I've spent my entire life fighting for control over my own decisions, and now I'm being told who I have to marry. So don't act like you're the only one angry about this." Your lips pressed into a thin line, your anger momentarily softened by a flicker of understanding. "Then why are you so calm? Why aren't you angrier?"

Natasha exhaled slowly, working to keep her emotions in check. "Because anger won't change anything. We're stuck in this, whether we like it or not. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we can figure out how to deal with it." You stared at her for a long moment, your expression softening just a little. "So we learn the script, smile for the cameras, and pretend we don’t hate each other?"

Natasha leaned forward slightly, her voice low and controlled. "Yes, we pretend we don't hate each other. But we have to make it believable. People will be watching us closely, if they sense something is off, the whole show falls apart. That means we need to know each other, at least enough to sell the act."

You raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident on your face. "And how do you suggest we do that? Some getting-to-know-you games? Maybe ‘Two Truths and a Lie’?" Natasha gave a humorless smile. "We start with the basics. We go through the script and fill in the gaps with real information. What's your favorite food? What do you do in your spare time? What’s your biggest pet peeve? Things that couples know about each other."

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, clearly not thrilled with the idea. "Fine. But don't expect me to share my deepest secrets."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She opened the file again and flipped to a page titled *Personal Details*. "It says here that you enjoy hiking and reading. Is that accurate, or did they make it up?" You rolled your eyes. "It's true. I like hiking when I have the time, and I read a lot, mostly history and politics, but they don't need to know that in detail."

Natasha nodded, making a mental note. "Good. We can work with that. Mine says I'm into physical fitness and strategy games." She paused and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. "Is there anything else we should add?" You looked at her thoughtfully before replying. "You like ballet, right? I read that somewhere." Natasha blinked, surprised by this observation. "Yes, that's true. Not many people know that."

"Well, it’s part of who you are.." you said, your tone less confrontational now. "We could use that." Natasha nodded, slightly impressed by this small concession. "Good. We'll add it to the list." You continued to go through the script, exchanging brief, factual information about yourselves, preferences, dislikes and childhood memories that could be used to support your fake story. But every answer was tinged with tension, each of you holding something back, building walls around yourselves.

After nearly an hour of discussion, you closed the file with a sigh and rubbed the back of your neck. "This is going to be a disaster." Natasha leaned back and crossed her arms. "Not if we're careful. We stick to the plan, stay on script, and give them no reason to doubt us."

You met her gaze, your expression weary but determined. "I just don't know how long we can keep this up. People will expect us to act like we actually care."

"We don't have to care." Natasha said, her voice cold and distant. "We just have to pretend we do." You shook your head, frustration evident in your voice. "And what happens if we slip up? If one of us says something off-script? We can't be perfect all the time."

"We won't slip up." Natasha said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We're both professionals. We've been in situations far more stressful than this. We'll manage." You stared at her for a moment, searching her face for a crack in her ironclad facade. "You really believe that, don't you? That we can just fake our way through this lie without any consequences?"

Natasha's gaze remained unchanged, unyielding. "I believe we don't have a choice." The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your situation pressing down on both of you. This wasn't just about memorizing lines or putting on a good show, it was about maintaining a facade that could crumble at any moment, exposing you both to public scrutiny and potential danger. Finally, you stood up, your movements stiff with unresolved tension. "I guess we'll see, won't we?" Natasha stood as well, her posture mirroring yours. "Yes. We will."

The days passed in a blurred whirl of public appearances, each one a carefully staged performance that only deepened the rift between you and Natasha. Every event, every gesture, every word was meticulously planned, yet the underlying tension between you was impossible to ignore. The first major event you attended as a married couple was a high-profile gala, the kind of glittering affair where the rich and powerful gathered under chandeliers to sip champagne and discuss global affairs. Natasha had attended similar events countless times before, but never under these circumstances.

You wore an elegant black evening gown that accentuated your every movement, while Natasha was dressed in a sharp suit. As you walked into the ballroom, her hand rested lightly on your back, a gesture meant to appear familiar, but to you, it felt like a shackle. "Ready to charm the masses?" she murmured with a sarcastic edge as you entered the room.

The night was a marathon of forced smiles and carefully calculated interactions. You moved through the crowd like seasoned professionals, your hand never leaving Natasha's back as you met with diplomats and high society, maintaining the facade of a loving couple. But beneath the surface, Natasha could feel your simmering anger, mirroring her own. At one point in the evening, as you were cornered by a particularly nosy journalist, Natasha's patience was put to the test. The journalist smiled broadly and inquisitively as she fired off questions about your supposed whirlwind romance.

"How did you two meet?" the journalist asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Natasha suppressed an eye roll, but her voice remained smooth and warm as she responded. "We met at a diplomatic conference. We were both there on separate missions, but we kept running into each other. Things developed from there."

You seamlessly picked up the conversation, though your smile was a bit too stiff. "It didn’t take long for us to realize how much we had in common. After that, everything just fell into place naturally." The journalist seemed satisfied with the answer but continued to probe. "And when did you know it was love?"

You hesitated, your smile faltering for a split second before you recovered. "It wasn't just one moment. It was a lot of little things that made us realize we couldn’t imagine our lives without each other." Natasha forced herself to smile at you, her fingers lightly brushing your arm in a gesture meant to appear affectionate. "Yes, it was all those little moments that made it clear."

As the journalist moved on, Natasha could feel the tension in your posture, your hand pressing a little more firmly against her back, as if you were reminding her of your shared discomfort. "That was close.." you muttered as you both retreated to a quieter corner of the room. "We handled it." Natasha replied curtly, her voice barely above a whisper. "That’s what we do."

The rest of the night proceeded in much the same way, the two of you moving through the room, presenting the perfect image of a loving couple. But every touch, every smile, every word was carefully calculated, and by the time you finally left the gala, Natasha felt as if she were about to snap from the strain.

The ride back to your shared apartment was suffocatingly silent. The driver, a SHIELD agent, wisely kept his eyes on the road, leaving you both to your thoughts. When you arrived 'home', you immediately went to the kitchen to pour yourself a stiff drink. Natasha followed you, already on edge, her patience worn thin by the constant charade.

You turned to her, your expression hard. "You're really good at this, you know that? At pretending. It’s almost like it’s second nature to you." Natasha tensed as she heard the accusation in your words. "I had to be good at it. It's my job."

You let out a humorless laugh. "Your job. Right. I guess that's what happens when you're trained to be a spy from childhood. You learn to play whatever role is required." The words hit a sore spot, and Natasha's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Careful, Y/n. You don't know what you're talking about."

You took a step closer, your voice dropping to a near growl. "Don't I? You’ve spent your whole life being prepared for this, haven’t you? To lie, to manipulate, to make people believe whatever you want them to. This whole marriage..this whole act..probably means nothing to you."

Natasha felt her anger flare, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "You think this is easy for me? You think I enjoy lying about every aspect of my life, pretending to be someone I’m not?" You didn’t back down, your eyes burning with frustration. "But you're damn good at it, aren’t you? Must be all those years in that room. They made you the perfect little actress."

That was the breaking point for Natasha. Her eyes flashed with anger as she stepped forward and closed the distance between you. "You have no idea what the Red Room did to me. What it took from me. So don’t you dare try to twist that into some kind of compliment!" You stood your ground, your own anger flaring in response. "I’m not giving you a compliment, Natasha. I’m saying it’s terrifying how easily you slip into these roles. How convincing you are at pretending to care."

Natasha's breathing quickened, her pulse pounding in her ears. "You think I want to be convincing, huh? You think I want to be good at this? I’ve spent my entire life fighting to break free of what the Red Room made me, and now I’m stuck in another damn role..and it’s with you."

Your jaw tightened, your anger now tinged with something that looked like guilt. "Maybe it’s not just a role for you. Maybe you don’t even know who you are when you’re not on a mission." The words cut deep, and for a moment, Natasha didn’t know how to respond. But the anger was too strong, too raw to let go. "You don’t know anything about me. Nothing about what I’ve been through, what I’ve had to do to survive."

You both stood there, staring each other down, the air between you crackling with fury and unspoken pain. Natasha's chest heaved with the force of her emotions, her mind a whirlwind of anger and hurt that she could barely keep in check. You set your glass down with a sharp clink, your face tight with suppressed frustration. "You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know you. But it sure as hell feels like you’re more comfortable in this lie than I am."

Natasha turned away, her hands trembling with the effort to contain her rage. "Go to bed, Y/n." You didn’t respond, simply turning on your heel and leaving the room, your footsteps echoing through the apartment. Natasha waited until she heard the door to your shared bedroom close before she finally let out a shaky breath. She was too good at pretending, far too good. And that was the problem. Because despite all her skills, all the years of training and missions, this felt different. It felt personal in a way she hadn’t anticipated, and your words had struck a nerve deep within her.

As Natasha stood alone in the kitchen, she couldn’t shake the feeling that you had seen through her facade in a way no one else ever had. The truth was, this marriage, this charade, was wearing her down in ways she hadn’t expected. And the more time she spent around you, the harder it became to maintain the mask she had worn for so long. She wanted to dismiss your words as just another argument, another clash of wills between two people who were forced into a situation neither wanted. But the truth was, you had hit on something she didn’t want to admit, even to herself. With a heavy sigh, she finally turned off the lights and headed to bed, her mind still racing. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up, but she knew one thing for certain. Whatever this was between the two of you, it was far from over.

The days that followed were intense, with both Natasha and you deeply immersed in your respective missions. Despite the tension between you, you had found a certain rhythm, maintaining your cover as a married couple while focusing on the tasks at hand. Your partnership was more functional than personal, efficient, strategic, and devoid of unnecessary emotional entanglements.

But that all changed when Loki appeared.

When chaos erupted in New York, the two of you were thrown right into the conflict, working side by side with the newly formed Avengers. The stakes were higher than ever, and there was no room for mistakes. You fought shoulder to shoulder, defeating Chitauri soldiers and securing key positions as you tried to save the city from destruction.

It was during one of those intense moments, after Natasha's confrontation with Loki, that everything changed. Loki had made it a point to bring up Natasha's past, the "red" in her ledger, the sins she had committed, the people she had hurt. He taunted her with names and events that Natasha had long tried to forget, using her guilt as a weapon to break her. The words were meant to destroy her, to make her doubt her worth, and they hit harder than any physical blow. But Natasha, the eternal professional, pressed on, using her pain as fuel to outmaneuver Loki and secure the information they needed. But the damage was done. The conversation with Loki had revealed more about Natasha’s past than she ever wanted anyone, especially you, to know.

After the battle, when the Avengers had won and the immediate threat had passed, Natasha returned to the SHIELD Helicarrier. The city was still in chaos, but the focus had shifted to recovery and rebuilding. Natasha was exhausted, both physically and mentally, the weight of Loki's words hanging over her like a dark cloud.

You had always had a keen sense for people, always quick to pick up on the smallest changes in mood or behavior. It was one of the reasons you were so good at your job. But now that sharp intuition was focused on Natasha, and it made her feel exposed in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

After debriefing with Fury, Natasha retreated to the quiet of your shared apartment, hoping to find a moment of peace. She had barely sat down on the edge of the bed when she heard the door open behind her.

“Natasha?” Your voice was soft, cautious, as you entered the room. Natasha didn’t turn around, but she could feel your probing gaze on her.

“What is it, Y/n?” Natasha’s tone was curt. She was too tired for this conversation, too drained to face another confrontation. You hesitated, the silence between you stretched out. “I..wanted to talk to you.” Natasha closed her eyes, bracing herself for another argument. “About what?”

“About Loki.” you said, your voice carefully measured. "We need to talk about what he said." Natasha’s muscles tensed, her back straightening as she tried to suppress the rising wave of fear in her chest. “I’m fine, Y/n. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“That’s the point, Natasha.” you continued, taking a few steps closer. “I am worried. I know I’ve pushed you before, teased you about your past, but I didn’t..I didn’t realize it was something so serious.” Natasha’s jaw tightened, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, not ever. “I’ve already told you, my past is none of your concern.”

“But it is, Natasha!” Your voice was firmer now, the frustration evident. “We’re supposed to be partners, and I feel like I don’t know you at all.” Natasha finally turned to face you, her eyes narrowing as she stood. “You don’t know me, Y/n. And that’s how it’s supposed to be. I didn’t ask for your sympathy, and I don’t need your pity.”

Your expression hardened, but there was a flicker of pain in your eyes. “This isn’t about pity, and you know it. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?” Natasha snapped, her voice rising. “That I’ve done things I’m not proud of? That my past is full of blood and darkness you can’t even imagine?” You flinched at the sharpness in her voice, but you didn’t back down. “You’re right. I don’t know everything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I’m trying to apologize, Natasha. For pushing you, for not realizing.”

Natasha stared at you, her anger battling with something deeper, something she didn’t want to name. “Why? So you can feel better? So you can feel like you’ve done the right thing?” Your eyes flashed with frustration. “No, damn it! I’m doing this because I care about you. Because, despite everything, I don’t want to keep fighting against you! Its draining..”

For a moment, you stood facing each other, the air between you charged with tension. Natasha felt her defenses beginning to crumble, the walls she had built around herself starting to give way under the weight of your words. Finally, she let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as the fight drained out of her. “You want to know the truth?"

Natasha sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands resting on her knees as if she needed to hold herself together. “The Red Room..it destroyed me. It took everything I was and made something else out of it. Something that had no choice, no control.” You sat down beside her, but you kept your distance, respecting the space she needed. “You didn’t have a choice, Natasha. You were a child.”

“That doesn’t change what I did ” Natasha said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. “I killed people. Innocent people. And I..I enjoyed it, Y/n. Back then, I enjoyed it because that’s what they made me.” You reached out, placing your hand gently over hers, but you said nothing. You knew this was a moment where words couldn’t do much.

Her voice was soft and laced with pain. “The things I’ve done..the people I’ve hurt..you can’t just brush that aside. The Red Room wasn’t just training, it was torture, it was conditioning, it was turning little girls into weapons. I did terrible things because I was programmed to. Because I didn’t know any better.” She paused, as the memories came flooding back with painful clarity. “And even after I got out, even after I tried to make up for it, the past still haunts me. Loki knew exactly where to strike, exactly how to remind me of the monster I once was.”

You listened in silence, your heart aching at the pain in Natasha’s voice. “You’re not a monster, Natasha.” She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “That’s easy for you to say. But you didn’t see what I did. You didn’t live it.”

“No, I didn’t. But I’ve seen who you are now. I’ve seen how hard you fight to do the right thing, how much you sacrifice. That’s not the work of a monster. That’s someone trying to make things right.” Natasha turned to you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But what if it’s not enough? What if it doesn’t matter what I do, and I can never atone for what I’ve done?”

You took her hands in yours. “You don’t have to do it alone, Natasha. You don’t have to carry this burden by yourself. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” Natasha looked down at your hands, the warmth of your touch grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. For so long, she had believed that her past was something she had to face alone, that no one could understand the shadow that had shaped her. But in this moment, with you by her side, she realized that maybe, just maybe she didn’t have to be alone anymore.

“I’m sorry.” Natasha whispered, her voice breaking. “For pushing you away.” You squeezed her hands gently. “I’m sorry too. For not seeing how much you were hurting.” You sat there for a long moment in silence, the weight of the past finally beginning to lift, replaced by something new..something fragile, but real. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was trust, and for now, that was enough.

The days after your late-night conversation were different, marked by an unspoken understanding that hadn’t been there before. Natasha and you continued with your missions, and the world was still recovering from the chaos of Loki’s attack, but something between you had shifted. Where there had once been tension and unspoken resentment, there was now a cautious, growing trust.

You moved around each other more easily, your conversations were less strained, your silences less heavy. The sharp edges of your interactions had softened, replaced by a tentative camaraderie that surprised you both. You weren’t friends yet, and certainly not lovers, but you were no longer just colleagues forced into a marriage of convenience. You were partners..genuine partners.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting mission, you returned to the Helicarrier and noticed the weariness weighing on Natasha. Her shoulders were slumped, and her usually sharp eyes were dulled with fatigue. But there was also something else, a lightness that hadn’t been there before, as if the burden she carried was now a little less heavy. “You look like you could use a break.” you said, your voice light but laced with concern. Natasha glanced at you, a small, tired smile playing on her lips. “You’re not wrong. This week has been hell.”

“More than usual.” you agreed. “How about we grab a drink? No talk about missions, just..a chance to unwind.” Natasha hesitated for a moment, her instinct to decline warring with the realization that maybe, just this once, she didn’t have to handle everything on her own. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”

You headed to one of the quieter lounges on the Helicarrier, a small, dimly lit room where off-duty agents could relax. It wasn’t exactly cozy, but it was private enough to talk without the weight of your roles hanging over you. You ordered a couple of drinks, and the two of you sat down at a small table near the window, through which the vast, dark night could be seen. For a while, you drank in silence, the easy silence between you a far cry from the tense moments of the past.

“You know..” you began after a while, swirling your drink in your glass, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About carrying this burden alone.” Natasha looked at you, her gaze steady but curious. “Yeah?”

“I’ve just..been thinking about how we’re supposed to be partners in this, but we’ve been so focused on keeping our walls up that we forgot what that really means." you said thoughtfully. “It’s not just about watching each other’s backs in a fight. It’s about being there for each other when things get tough, when the past tries to drag you down.”

Natasha nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I’m not used to that, you know. Letting someone in.”

“I figured..” you said with a small smile. “But you let me in, at least a little. And I want you to know that it meant something. It made me realize that maybe I haven’t been as fair to you as I could have been.” Natasha’s expression softened, a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability in her eyes. “You don’t need to apologize, Y/n. We were both just doing our jobs.”

“I know.” you replied. “But still, I’m sorry. For pushing you, for not seeing how much you’ve been through. I was so caught up in the mission and the cover that I didn’t take the time to really see you.” Natasha took a sip of her drink, letting the warmth of the alcohol ease the tension in her shoulders. “You see me now.” she said quietly. “And that’s more than I’ve let anyone do in a long time.”

You sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes, the atmosphere between you relaxed and open. Natasha realized that it was a relief not to have to be constantly on guard, not to have to keep everyone at a distance. “You know.." you said after a while, your tone lighter, “I’ve been thinking that when all this mess is over, we should take a break. Do something normal. I hear married couples go on vacations.” Natasha chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “I’m not sure we pass as a normal married couple.”

“Who said anything about normal?” you grinned. “We could do something out of the ordinary. Like..I don’t know, skydiving or rock climbing. Something that gets the adrenaline pumping without the life-and-death stakes.” Natasha raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. “So you want us to jump out of a plane..for fun?”

You shrugged, a mischievous smile on your lips. “Why not? After everything we’ve been through, it might be nice to do something that gets the heart racing without our lives depending on it.” Natasha considered it for a moment, then smiled, a real smile, not the practiced one she used in public. “You know what? That actually doesn’t sound so bad.”

You clinked your glasses together, and as the evening wore on, you talked about everything and nothing. Trivial things like favorite foods and music, and deeper topics like your dreams and fears. The walls between you continued to crumble, and by the time you finally returned to your apartment, there was a new understanding between you. “Thank you, Y/n. For tonight.” You smiled back, your voice warm. “Anytime, Natasha. We’re in this together.”

“Yeah.” Natasha replied, the words feeling truer than ever before. “We are.” As you parted ways for the night, Natasha felt a lightness in her chest that she hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t just the drink or the fact that she had survived another day, it was the knowledge that she wasn’t alone anymore. That for the first time in years, she had someone she could trust.

The following weeks were different. Natasha and you continued to work together, your partnership now stronger as the initial tension had eased. You were still far from being a typical married couple, but the foundation of trust you had begun to build made all the difference. One day, after a particularly successful mission, Fury called you both into his office. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was a hint of something, perhaps approval in his gaze.

“You two have done good work.” Fury said, his voice even. “The mission was a success, and your cover held under pressure. I have to admit, I wasn’t sure how this partnership would work, but you’ve exceeded expectations.”

Natasha glanced at you briefly, and you shared a small, knowing smile. “Thank you, sir.” Natasha replied. Fury nodded, then leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharpening. “That said, I’m not sure how much longer we can maintain the appearance of this marriage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” Fury sighed, a rare sign of weariness passing over his face. “The situation has stabilized for now, but I have a feeling more trouble is on the horizon. You two have done your job well, but I’m giving you the option to dissolve the marriage if you think it’s the right move.”

Natasha felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite identify, regret? Uncertainty? She looked at you, searching your face for a clue as to what you were thinking. You met her gaze, your expression thoughtful. “I think..we should talk about it. See where we both stand.”

Natasha nodded slowly, a strange mix of emotions swirling in her chest. “Yeah. We’ll figure it out.” Fury watched you both for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Take your time." With that, he dismissed you, and you left the office in silence, the weight of the decision heavy on your minds.

As you walked through the corridors, Natasha felt a sense of unease rising in her stomach. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected to feel anything at the thought of ending the marriage. But now, the idea left a strange emptiness inside her. “So..” you said quietly as you reached your quarters, “what do you want to do?”

Natasha took a deep breath, turning to face you. “I don’t know." she admitted. “This started as a mission, as a cover. But now..I don’t know.” You nodded, your expression understanding. “I get it. It’s complicated.”

Natasha hesitated, then reached out and took your hand in hers. “But I know one thing. Whatever happens, I don’t want to lose what we’ve built. I don’t want to lose this..partnership.”

You stood there for a long moment, holding each other’s gaze, the air between you charged with unspoken possibilities. Finally, you smiled, a genuine, warm smile that made Natasha’s heart skip a beat. "I have a good Idea where we can talk further.."

The lounge was quiet, with only the occasional murmur of conversations on the other side of the room. Natasha and you had had a few drinks again, the alcohol warming your bodies and loosening your tongues. You had been talking for hours, the conversation flowing easily between you in a way it hadn’t before. The heaviness of your earlier tensions had lifted, replaced by a comfortable, almost intimate atmosphere.

Natasha took another sip of her drink, enjoying the burn as it slid down her throat. She looked at you, watching as you swirled the last bit of your whiskey in your glass, your eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol. Your words slightly slurred, “I never thought we’d end up here. Not like this.”

Natasha laughed, her own voice tinged with the effects of the alcohol. “Yeah, me neither. This whole thing… was unexpected.” You leaned back in your chair, your gaze fixed on Natasha. “But..I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad we’re talking like this.” Natasha felt a warmth spread through her, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Me too.” she admitted, her voice softening. “It’s nice…not feeling alone.”

You smiled, a crooked, slightly drunken smile that made Natasha’s heart skip a beat as she felt a surge of emotions she wasn’t entirely ready to name. “You’re not alone, Natasha. Not anymore.” There was a charged moment between you, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of your shared experiences. The alcohol had lowered your defenses, leaving you both more vulnerable and open than you had been in a long time.

Natasha set her glass down, her fingers lightly brushing against yours on the table. The touch was electric, sending a shiver of awareness through her. She looked up and met your gaze, and in your eyes, she saw the same spark of attraction that she felt. For a moment, neither of you moved, the tension between you growing more intense with each passing second. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, you leaned across the table, and your lips met Natasha’s in a gentle, hesitant kiss.

Natasha’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding as she responded to the kiss, her lips moving against yours in a way that felt both familiar and completely new. The kiss was tentative at first, an exploration of boundaries, but it quickly deepened as the need for each other became overwhelming.

Without breaking the kiss, you stood and pulled Natasha up with you. Your hands found each other’s bodies, exploring, touching, as you made your way out of the lounge and down the corridor to a quarter. Your kisses grew hotter, more desperate, as you neared the room. You fumbled with the keycard, finally managing to open the door, and the two of you tumbled inside, your bodies pressed tightly together. As you finally made it to the bed, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. There was only the two of you, entwined with one another, your kisses hungry, your touches urgent. The alcohol had stripped away your inhibitions, leaving only the raw desire for each other.

The night passed in a blur of passionate moments and whispered names, your bodies intertwined as you lost yourselves completely in each other. The connection between you deepened with every touch, every kiss, until there was no distance left between you, no more walls to keep you apart. When you finally fell asleep, your bodies were still entwined, your breaths mingling as you drifted into a deep, contented sleep. The alcohol had done its job, lowering your defenses and bringing you together in a way neither of you had expected.

The first thing Natasha felt as she slowly woke up was the dull pounding in her head. She groaned softly, turning over and pulling the blanket tighter around herself, trying to block out the morning light seeping through the curtains. But as she moved, she realized something was off, something warm and solid was lying beside her. She froze, her senses suddenly sharp despite the hangover. Slowly, she opened one eye and was immediately met with the sight of you lying next to her, your face turned toward her, still fast asleep.

Natasha’s breath hitched as the events of the previous night came rushing back to her. The drinks, the laughter, the conversation that had unexpectedly turned personal..and then how you had ended up here, wrapped in each other’s arms. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried to piece everything together. You had both been drunk, very drunk but that didn’t explain everything. How had you gone from reluctant partners in a forced marriage to this point? What had driven you to cross a line she hadn’t even realized you were approaching?

“shit." Natasha muttered quietly, careful not to disturb you as she tried to extricate herself from the sheets. But as she moved, you stirred beside her, your eyes slowly fluttering open. For a moment, you both simply stared at each other, your expressions mirroring the shock and confusion that Natasha was feeling. “Morning.” you finally said, your voice rough and uncertain.

“Morning.” Natasha echoed, her voice just as hesitant. There was a long, awkward silence as you both tried to process the situation. Natasha could see the same questions in your eyes that were running through her own mind: How had this happened? What did it mean? And where do you go from here?

“I..uh..did we…?” you began, clearly struggling to find the right words. Natasha’s cheeks flushed slightly as she nodded. “Yeah. I think we did.”

You rubbed your hand over your face, slowly sitting up as you tried to shake off the remnants of sleep and alcohol. “Okay, so…how did we end up here?” Natasha bit her lip, trying to recall the details. “We were talking..had a lot to drink. And then..I don’t know. One thing led to another, I guess.” She managed a small, ironic smile. “But at least we don’t have to invent any lies if someone asks us about our sex life now.”

You chuckled at her comment, and the tension in the room eased slightly. “True. It’s almost like we’ve fully embraced our roles now. Now that she's finished.” Natasha rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “I guess we’re just overachievers.”

The laughter died down, and once again, the reality of your situation set in. Things had gotten personal in a way neither of you had anticipated. “So…what do we do now?” you asked, your tone more serious this time.

Natasha sighed, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around herself. “I don’t know. We could just pretend nothing happened, but… that feels like we’d be lying to ourselves.”

“Yeah, and we’ve done enough pretending to last a lifetime.” you agreed, your expression thoughtful. “But we also can’t ignore the fact that this all started as a mission. A mission where we were supposed to pretend to be in love, even though we didn’t really like each other.” Natasha nodded, the weight of that truth pressing down on her. “Right. And now we’ve crossed a line, and I don’t think we can just go back.”

You frowned, deep in thought. “But do we need to go back? I mean, we’ve been through a lot together, and… I don’t know. Maybe this was just..inevitable?” Natasha looked at you, searching your face for any hint of what you were really feeling. “Maybe. But now it’s complicated. We can’t just act like everything is the same as before.”

Your smile, “Hey, at least we’re dedicated to the mission, right?” Natasha laughed, the sound easing some of the tension. “Right. We’ve more than fulfilled our duties.”

You both laughed, the tension between you beginning to dissipate. The humor was a relief, a way to ease the confusion and discomfort that came with waking up in each other’s bed after what was supposed to be just another night of playing your roles. But as the laughter faded, the reality of your situation remained. You couldn’t just laugh your way out of this, you had to figure out what it meant for you.

“So…what do we do now?” you asked again, your tone more serious this time. Natasha sighed, running a hand through her hair as she tried to organize her thoughts. “We figure it out. No more lies, no more excuses. We take it one step at a time.” You nodded, your expression softening. “I can do that. One step at a time.”

Natasha felt a strange sense of relief at your words. This was new territory for both of you, but at least you didn’t have to navigate it alone. You had each other, and while it was still a complicated mess, it was something you could rely on. As you both got out of bed and began to dress, the weight of your new reality settled over you. This wasn’t going to be easy, but you were in it together, and for now, that was enough.

“Hey, Natasha?” you said as you pulled your shirt over your head. “Yeah?”

You paused for a moment, your expression thoughtful. “I know this isn’t what either of us expected, but..I’m glad we’re here." Natasha smiled, a warm feeling spreading through her chest. “Me too, Y/n. Me too.”

As you left the room and stepped back into the world, you did so with a new understanding of each other. You had started as reluctant partners, forced together by a mission, but now…now there was something more. Something worth exploring, even if it was still messy and confusing. The mission had brought you together, but it was your shared experiences and growing bond that would keep you together. And as you walked side by side, ready to face whatever came next, you both knew that this was only the beginning of something new.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha smut #natasha romanoff #dom!natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut

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rottenpumpkin13 · 3 months ago

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A lovely group of people encouraged me to post this so fuck it !!

This is going to be a long post, bear with me, but I have a lot to get off my chest about Angeal. I’m starting with how people’s vitriol towards his character completely glosses over the trauma he endured within the game alone.

I understand that Crisis Core is a flawed game where characters like Genesis, Angeal, and even Zack didn’t translate on screen as well as they could have due to areas of weak writing and the context lost during localization into English. But at the same time, there are aspects of the game—background details—that shed light on why characters act the way they do and this is especially true in Angeal’s case.

Angeal is a character shaped not only by his upbringing in poverty, but also by the heavy emotional burden of depression and the disillusionment that follows his discovery of his origins. His actions might seem erratic or morally ambiguous on the surface, but they’re rooted in his mentality shaped by poverty, the ideals he built to survive it, and the eventual crumbling of those ideals.

When someone is raised poor—in Angeal's case, poor enough where it's implied that they didn't have enough to eat—they grow up with a scarcity mindset that comes with a sense of hyper-responsibility veered towards survival.

We know his father passed from exhaustion, working hard to pay off the Buster Sword, so we get the sense that him witnessing his parents work hard made him internalize the notion that he must work hard both to survive and to uphold honor at any cost.

Angeal’s preoccupation with the concept of honor is a direct reflection of his upbringing. Based on Gillian telling Zack in Banora that the Buster Sword represents their family’s honor, we understand that Angeal grew up being taught to value it. Without material wealth or privilege, Angeal built his identity around his ideals. He frequently reminds Zack that honor is the defining trait of a SOLDIER, showing how he clings to this concept to give his life meaning beyond his origins.

Growing up poor not only teaches you that you are undeserving of basic necessities, but it would teach Angeal to value stability and resources, no matter the moral compromises required to secure them.

The opportunity to join SOLDIER and work for Shinra would've represented a way out of poverty. Shinra offered him a stable future and the means to provide for his mother (maybe even his father, though as I'm writing this, when Angeal's father died hasn't been revealed in the canon timeline. It's very possible that he also saw it as a way to provide and care for his sick father).

Using SOLDIER as a means to escape poverty—despite Hollander’s probable influence, let's be honest—likely became an underlying reason why Angeal didn’t abandon Shinra outright. In his mind, letting go of SOLDIER would mean letting things fall apart—losing resources, security, and a sense of control, which he was already losing with the desertion, the Genesis war, and the degradation.

This mindset also explains Angeal’s relationship with the sword his father gave him, as the Buster Sword represents the culmination of his ideals: hard work, honor, and the tools necessary for survival. But Angeal refuses to use the Buster Sword for fear of causing wear, tear, and rust.

Seeing his father lose his life over the sword, he resolved not to use it unless absolutely necessary, saving his resources until truly needed. It’s not that he’s stingy or nonsensical—this is textbook behavior for someone raised in poverty. He doesn’t want to waste or use up what’s valuable, especially knowing that his father died for it.

He's hyper-aware of his role in supporting others, and we can see this by his deep sense of responsibility toward Zack, like how he saved him in Wutai using the Buster Sword. When he says "You’re a little more important than my sword" I like to think that he means that, above all, he values the people he cares about.

However, the same ideals create tension within him the moment they crumble following his desertion. Not only his sense of honor, but as he learns the truth, his sense of self-worth begins to deteriorate and thus begins the downward spiral of not knowing how to reconcile his nature as a "monster" in his words, with being SOLDIER.

Angeal’s depression is evident throughout Crisis Core, and the degradation of the Jenova cells mirrors the psychological and emotional degradation he experiences (literal implications aside).

The closer he gets to losing his body, the more he loses his sense of purpose and identity, not to mention how the honor he had built his life around was spoiled the minute the people who taught him that were his father, who turned out not to be his biological father at all, and his mother, who lied to him. His entire life. He starved for nothing and lost his father twice.

The depression Angeal experiences is compounded by the trauma of discovering the truth about his birth. Learning that he was created as part of Shinra's experiments, that his mother was complicit in these experiments, and that he is no more than a weapon for corporate interests leaves him rightfully betrayed. In fact, his reaction was tame in comparison to Genesis and Sephiroth.

His mother’s suicide further deepens his trauma and gives us the first major evidence of his suicidal ideation and severely unwell mental state: "My mother did not deserve to live, and neither does her son," which he says instead of explaining what happened/defending himself after Zack assumed he killed her.

This belief that he is unworthy of life stems directly from the revelation that his life was never truly his own but an engineered existence meant to serve Shinra's greed. This statement epitomizes his suicidal ideation, a declaration that he too is undeserving of life, both because of the role he played in perpetuating Shinra’s horrors and the labelling himself as a monster undeserving of life, an unnatural thing that needs to be purged from existence.

I can’t even begin to describe the magnitude of the revelation that the man whose ideals he built his life around, whom he believed was his father, isn’t his father at all but instead Hollander is, who his mother worked with to orchestrate everything that’s happening to him now

Mothers are a central theme in FF7’s world, with Jenova/Lucrecia being at the center of that and their actions’ influence over Sephiroth, but there’s also Cloud grieving his mother’s death at the hands of Sephiroth, Tifa believing that she would see her mother again if she climbed Mt. Nibel, Aerith watching Ifalna die and then being adopted by Elmyra, and so on.

Gillian, from what we can tell, was loving and raised Angeal with care. She likely kissed him to bed each night, comforted and nurtured him in the way a devoted mother would. But the revelation of her involvement in the Jenova Project shattered everything Angeal believed about her. In Angeal's words, her "shame" became unbearable, and he saw her once nurturing presence as a facade hiding deeper lies. Her decision to take her own life after he confronted her about it added to Angeal’s trauma, reinforcing the belief that everything he held dear was built on deception.

I like to think that there was a part of Angeal that carried the guilt of Genesis’ degradation. Maybe he thought that if he hadn’t come between them in the training room, Genesis would’ve been fine—(which I don’t think so. I think there’s a high chance Genesis would’ve gotten hurt either way and that would’ve triggered the degradation).

This is a topic for another time, but I don't think any singular person was to blame for the incident in the training room. They're all equally to blame without it being their fault, because none of them asked to be a part of the Jenova Project. It's ultimately Shinra's fault.

Angeal probably struggled with depression even before the events of Crisis Core. Poverty itself is a destructive force that can cause lasting psychological damage. It has a significant impact on mental health, just like how growing up under Hojo’s abuse and being controlled by Shinra had its effects on Sephiroth. It can and does lead to depression due to the mental, emotional, and often physical (hello, Angeal's father) exhaustion it causes. Even when someone escapes the instability, it still stays with you because by then, you've learned to live in a world that taught you that you didn't deserve to live in it unless you work hard.

And now Angeal doesn't want to live in it for other reasons.

Another thing @ilminnestrone pointed out to me (who, btw, huge shout out for beta’ing this post <3 ), is how his mental state was influenced by the culture of toxic masculinity within the military/ SOLDIER. Just like in the real world, the military environment at Shinra likely placed a heavy emphasis on masculinity, strength, stoicism, and left little to no room for vulnerability lest the operative in question was deemed weak and not at all befitting of the shallow profile of a hero Shinra capitalized on.

In environments like these, Angeal is expected to always be in control, to suppress any emotional or mental struggles, and to uphold an image of unshakable resilience, especially when he was canonically considered to be the spiritual leader of SOLDIER.

This expectation of constant strength absolutely exacerbated whatever pre-existing struggle he had going on—circling back to how being raised in poverty has long lasting effects on mental health. Rather than being able to openly process his feelings about his degradation, his mother’s betrayal, Hollander being his real father, or where he fit in this new reality of his, he was still trapped in a role that demanded he shoulder everything in silence.

Keep in mind that in a culture where admitting weakness is often seen as failure, Angeal’s (and Genesis’) deterioration would’ve been magnified tenfold by the toxic expectation that they maintain an appearance of unwavering strength.

This combined with the rigid ideals Angeal built around honor and the nature of his job must’ve weighed on him for years. The mutation only exacerbated potential doubts that were already there.

Angeal's actions in the narrative are not those of a clear-cut hero or villain. Instead he occupies an in-between space where his moral compass, traumatic experiences and actions inspired by his headspace constantly clash, which is what leads to his label as a hypocrite.

His decision to defect from Shinra and join Genesis is not a simple act of betrayal but rather the result of his overwhelming internal conflict. On the one hand, he wants to get through to Genesis and help him, he's aware that Shinra has betrayed them, but on the other hand, his ingrained sense of duty and loyalty makes it difficult for him to fully break away from the organization and responsibilities he has like, for example, Zack.

He wants to do good but knows that his conception was not a product of good intentions. In his mind he's a monster being pulled in different directions at once. If anything, this is most realistic reaction to what he’s going through in the game.

His behavior becomes erratic as he oscillates between opposing forces—one where he remains loyal to the values he once cherished, and another where he acknowledges the harsh truth— struggling to reconcile his identity as an honorable SOLDIER with a science experiment.

This moral ambivalence is a symptom of his deeper trauma, as he tries to cling to the remnants of his previous beliefs, which is why he’s still enforcing having dreams and honor despite his actions.

Some dialogue from the game where Angeal acknowledges his headspace:

Angeal: I need your help

Zack: Do you?

Angeal:

Zack: Honestly, what are you thinking Angeal?

Angeal: I'm not really sure myself. At times I feel as if my mind is mired in fog.

The scene where he sprouts his wing and jokes about being after world domination is another key glimpse into his mindset. At this point, the joke isn’t entirely a joke—it’s a reflection of his resignation to the role the degradation has cast him in. The line about a monster’s objective being world domination is a bitter acceptance of the fact that, in his mind, he has no choice but to fulfill the destiny that was engineered for him.

He feels trapped. And yet when Zack compares him to an angel, his response is: "Then what should an angel fight for Zack? What do angels dream of?! Angels dream of one thing... To be human."

He wants the cure and the normalcy so badly, but in his mind, the "monstrosity" is something that sets him apart from humanity and a reminder that he is different, degraded, and no longer the man he once believed himself to be.

Angeal's ultimate decision to force Zack to kill him is the culmination of his depression and his struggle to reconcile his identity. He believes that his continued existence is something that needs to be purged, something that poses a danger to those around him, something that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He wants to pass on the ideals of honor that he once held so dear, even if he feels unworthy of them himself. In his mind, the only way to regain some form of dignity is to die by the hand of someone who still embodies the values he once believed in.

Zack as his student represents the purity of those ideals—untainted by the knowledge of Shinra's experiments and degradation. By having Zack end his life, Angeal seeks not only an escape from his torment but also a way to pass on his legacy to Zack.

His final words: "Protect your honor, always."

Angeal made his dreams clear earlier when he said that an angel's dream is to be human. When he dies, passing the Buster Sword to Zack is not only a way to protect his honor but also a fulfillment of that dream. At that moment, there's nothing more human than dying at the hands of someone else, rather than succumbing to degradation.

This act, while devastating (and yes, extremely traumatic for Zack), is consistent with the psychological profile of someone who has suffered long-term trauma, depression, and suicidal ideation.

Might be controversial but at this point in the rant fuck it: Condemning Angeal’s choices shifts all the sympathy onto others while entirely overlooking the immense suffering he was enduring. People often focus on how his actions impact those around him—Zack, Sephiroth, and others—without ever considering what Angeal himself is going through. All the above mentioned, the shame, the suicidal thoughts brought on by the degradation and his subsequent actions to purge himself from existence, they’re all pushed aside in favor of examining how others are affected. Everyone was affected, yes, and Zack deserves all the sympathy in the world for what he was made to endure in Crisis Core.

But I feel like this erases Angeal’s pain and frames his ultimate decision as a betrayal rather than a desperate act of self-sacrifice driven by his own emotional struggles.

"Oh, but Angeal was a terrible friend, Angeal was a bad mentor, Angeal was a hypocrite." Here’s the thing: If you’re someone who sympathizes with Sephiroth for having a traumatic past that led to a mental breakdown and burning Nibelheim, if you understand Genesis’ destructive actions as a response to degradation, then you can sympathize with Angeal for his turmoil and his position in Crisis Core.

Angeal’s spiral is rooted in a lifetime of hardship—from growing up in poverty to confronting the existential dread of his degradation. He wasn’t just a man falling apart. He was someone trying to uphold the honor he cherished, even as his world and his sense of self crumbled around him and forced that honor he held so dear became hollow.

His actions make sense within the context of his mental state.

I'll end this by saying that this isn't a rant to defend his actions, but rather to defend the mental health aspect that may go overlooked when discussing Angeal, which is such an integral part of his character.

#ok ok back to my usual stuff #i just want you all to know that I'm terrified of posting this fffffff #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #angeal hewley #final fantasy vii #crisis core

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tarot-by-e11e · 6 months ago

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PAC: What do you need to learn to love about yourself?

Never forget to only take what resonates and leave what doesn't. This is a general PAC reading, so if the first pile you chose doesn't resonate with you, then maybe you're meant to read another pile.

(this is for entertainment purposes only)

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. •,¸,.·�� ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.•,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.

Pile 1: Ace of Swords, 4 of Coins, 9 of Cups

You may feel like an outcast, Pile 1. You don’t think like other people. You might have also been scrutinized for being able to “work smart”, being told, “Why do we have to do it a new way when the old way still works?”. My dear Pile 1, you must learn to love your inner visionary. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to improve the current system of things. You sought to evolve and you hope by sharing your ideas, others can grow and move forward with you. You’re also able to see through the mess and create clarity for yourself. Embrace the parts of you that can naturally find ways of life more efficiently and cost-effectively.

Another great thing about you that deserves a whole lot of love is your practical approach towards financial literacy. Others might have called you stingy but they didn’t know you might have grown up in a place of lack. So you had promised yourself to work smart so that you won’t have to worry about how you’re going to afford to put food on the table, a roof over your head, and clothes on your back.

There’s nothing to be ashamed about knowing how to make money work for you. You have this natural ability to be wise and practical about your resources. Be proud that you know how to also be secure internally as well. Establishing healthy boundaries is a skill we all need yet not everyone learns. People call you guarded, I say you know that not everyone deserves to have access to you.

Finally, never shame yourself for being able to achieve your goals and dreams in life, pile 1. You should allow yourself to enjoy the fruits of your labor unapologetically. This is a rather hard pill to swallow for those with survivor’s guilt. Being able to become the person you’ve always wanted to be means those people you loved who didn’t evolve with you might get left behind. This makes it difficult for you to allow yourself to savor your success when you have loved ones who haven’t achieved their dreams yet.

As much as you want to be happy for them, you can’t make them achieve their success for them. They chose their way of life as you did yours. If your success bothers them, it’s not your responsibility to coddle and make yourself small for their comfort. So, if you feel you deserve to go on a solo vacation for your hard work, then go for it. If you want to move into your own apartment, go right ahead.

You have every right to use your money to whoever you see fit. You’ve worked hard to earn that, so treat yourself right with the fruits of your labor. Don’t apologize for that promotion. Never apologize for your happiness. You just need to remember one thing: you can’t control how others react to your success.

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. •,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.•,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.

Pile 2: Moon, 9 of Swords, 4 of Swords

First of all pile 2, one thing you should learn to love about yourself is your intuition and your ability to easily see through the BS. Yup, I said it loud and clear. You see through the BS in people. They can’t lie to you, even to save their lives. Your intuition is a gift that helps you in any way that can help lead you into your highest good. Though it seems that pile 2 feels bad that you see through the superficial two-faced niceties among your peers. You might have experienced moments where you muttered under your breath, “I hope I’m wrong” only to be proven right yet again. Don’t you think it’s high time you should stop lying to yourself and embrace this amazing gift?

Another thing you should learn to love about yourself is knowing your limits and being able to give yourself the space to honor and validate your fears and anxiety. Don’t beat yourself up for being aware of what you can or cannot do because knowing your limitations means you can utilize whatever skills you have at hand that are to your advantage.

Also, not everyone is resilient enough to be able to hold space for their fears, anxiety, and insecurities without letting the aforementioned swallow them whole. You know yourself well enough that you need to be able to safely allow your feelings to be seen and validated for your and everyone’s good. You know what it’s like to be at the bottom, so you know that with your acquired knowledge backed by personal experience, you can help someone else ease through their own fears and anxiety.

Finally Pile 2, you need to stop feeling guilty about prioritizing your self-care and rest. You know what your body requires to be able to do your tasks every day. There’s nothing wrong with being able to listen to what your body needs intuitively. When you know you’re about to rest, you know yourself well enough that you need to pause, reassess, and re-strategize your approach moving forward.

You should also be proud of knowing how to protect your peace. Some people who call you selfish for putting yourself, down don’t like the fact that they can’t manipulate and abuse you to their advantage. The issue is with them, never with you. Knowing how to protect and defend yourself is something you should be proud of. You know your worth and you also know what you won’t tolerate. So, you shouldn’t fault and cave into to toxic societal norm of conforming to unrealistic and unethical double standards. Embrace your self-worth. Never feel bad about putting yourself first.

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. •,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.•,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.

Pile 3: 5 of Swords, 10 of Coins, Justice

Hi Pile 3, what you need to learn to love about yourself is your conflict resolution skills. This pile feels like my eloquent speakers pile. Could also be my bookworm pile. With an extensive vocabulary and unfortunately growing up in a hostile environment, for the sake of your survival, you grew up having no choice but to be good at conflict resolution. I know it’s an odd thing to love about yourself but another great thing that you should learn to love about yourself is you know when to stand firm and fight, if necessary.

Like, if diplomacy is useless, you’re ready to take the offensive approach. But this has always been your last resort. Knowing what it’s like to grow up in a chaotic environment if you had a choice, you would avoid recreating that childhood chaos in your current adult life. You’d exhaust all diplomatic approaches before you’re forced to take the offensive stance. That’s one of the many things about you that deserves to be loved and appreciated.

What you need to learn to love about yourself is your legacy/roots/ancestry, pile 3. This could also be my POC / mixed race / immigrant pile. It sort of makes sense why you’re a bit iffy about your lineage, especially if you’re mixed race because you might have been bullied when you were younger. So, it’s a bit tricky to love a part of you that your immediate environment teased/bullied/ostracized you for.

You must have dealt with a whole plethora of traumatic stories because you don’t look like most people around you. There’s nothing wrong with being different. There’s nothing wrong with being an immigrant. There’s nothing wrong about being of mixed race. You are beautiful/handsome/lovable just the way you are. The issues is never with you so never shame yourself for your lineage. You deserve love, respect, and happiness for simply existing.

Finally, don’t feel bad about being honest and holding others accountable. There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you are upholding your integrity. You should learn to love the parts of yourself that cannot stand injustice. You have this natural instinct to defend the powerless and speak for the silenced. Not everyone is brave enough to fight for their beliefs and the rights of others. Your need for truth is quite remarkable. So never feel bad about not being a good liar. It just means you don’t see the point of lying to someone.

In this age where manipulation and mental games are being praised as “owning your power”, people, like you pile 3, are rarer than black opals in a Pacific ocean full of diamonds. So never let anyone bully you into conforming to this mental gymnastics just to be accepted/in a relationship. People who are meant to be in your life don’t have to be lied to in order for them to want to be with you. You can only keep someone that wants to be kept.

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. •,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.•,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.

Pile 4: 10 of Cups, Page of Wands, King of Cups

From what I can pick up for you pile 4 is that you should be proud that you came from a loving home. I know, it kind of sounds like too much of a flex. To have been able to grow up in a loving environment while your peers grew up in chaotic and traumatic environments tends to leave a heavy guilt in your heart. A part of you feels bad that you can’t relate to having a crappy childhood because your parents actually did the work and healed together so that you can have a happy childhood.

So… whenever your friends or peers open up about how they feel unloved and unappreciated at home then they ask you about your childhood, you must have lied to avoid putting salt in their wounds. I understand the need for camaraderie but you shouldn’t feel bad about having come from a loving family. If your friends are okay with this suggestion, why not invite them over? Ask your family if they can be more understanding and considerate towards your friends. To be an example that not all adults are bad.

Another interpretation of this card is to be proud of your happiness. Don’t feel bad that you actually have a loving partner while your friends are still single. Don’t be ashamed of being seen with your significant other. It’s not like you’re intentionally making your single friends jealous whenever you answer their questions about your love life.

You should be unapologetically proud of your happiness, especially when you know you did nothing wrong. Why apologize for your happiness when everyone wants to be happy, in some shape or form? Also, consider this as a word of caution, if someone around you isn’t happy for your happiness, best to cut ties with them. It’s not wise to be around someone who doesn’t know how to be happy for the happiness of others. This doesn’t just involve relationships, this can also be applied to promotions, achievements, and awards.

Something about yourself that deserves more love pile 3 is your cheerful disposition and adventurous spirit. It’s not shameful to be able to see the silver lining. It’s not bad to be able to see the good in people. With how our world is in constant chaos and peril, we need people like you who haven’t lost hope for a better and brighter future.

So never feel bad about being perceived as naïve when you’re simply not projecting your bad experiences to the new people you meet in your life. What’s so bad about still being able to be excited about the glimmers in life? There’s nothing to feel bad about being able to cater and nurture your inner child. So never let the world shame you for never giving up hope.

Finally Pile 4, you should learn to love your natural inclination for diplomacy. Knowing when to listen to your heart or when to lead with your head is such a life-changing and valuable ability that majority of us are constantly learning to master day by day. You might have been told that you’re so mature and wiser than your age, which might have been internalized as this insatiable need to always be reliable and dependable. At times, it might feel like such a burden at times; to always be the person everyone relies on.

So… since you are aware of the weight of the responsibility of being the reliable person for everyone, you should use your ability of discernment to decide a schedule on when will you entertain request for counsel for those who need you. You know what your needs are, and you also know that you need to be able to live a balanced life to be of service to others. So, learn to be okay with putting yourself first so that you can help others better in a later date.

.·:*¨ ¨*:·. •,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.•,¸,.·’ ‘·.,¸,•.·:*¨ ¨*:·.

Please do let me know how you resonate with your pile in the comment section below.

Thank you so much for looking through my PAC.

Tagging my personal account: @e11e27 as a reminder.

#divination #tarot #tarot reading #tarotcommunity #pick a card #tarot cards #tarotblr #pick a picture #pick a pile #pick a photo #pac tarot #pac reading

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enidette · 8 months ago

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I ALWAYS WILL BE carl grimes x fem!reader

warnings — violence, gun usage, reader gets injured, mentions of death, hurt to comfort (i tried at least)

carl met you in alexandria. you had lived there since the beginning of the apocalypse, so your knowledge when it comes to fighting it’s very limited. the two of you bonded immediately and it didn’t take much time for you to become extremely close. relying on each other, mostly you relying on him, for nearly everything.

he at least taught you how to shoot, and you could do it. as long as it’s either a close or still target. and you were prepared.

so maybe you weren’t that ready to go on a run or fight flesh eating dead humans… but rick was running low on people he needed to get the job done. and despite having little knowledge, you stepped up. it didn’t seem like anyone else would.

this leads you to now, in the passenger seat while carl drives around in search for a place to raid. you have to say, it was funny watching rick internally battle with letting his son and you go of all people. but you needed to scavenge and you two were the only options.

carl was just a tad on edge, not because of a fear of something happening to him, oh no. a fear of something happening to you. he hadn’t taught you what all you needed to know just to have the odds in your favor out here.

everything went well for the first few hours, you were able to get plenty of resources that negan would most likely show interest in. but of course, not everything is sunshine and rainbows in an apocalypse.

you’re both at an abandoned store a long way away from alexandria when you hear growling behind you and begin to silently panic. carl is too far from you for you to get his attention without yelling, and you wouldn’t want to do that or pull your gun in fear of drawing in more.

but your gun is all you had. all you knew how to use.

a knife couldn’t be too hard? or something sharp. you look around frantically, finding a piece of broken glass on the sidewalk near you. you wait for the walker to come to you, the overwhelming stench of death accompanied by it’s fucked face made you grimace. you shove the glass shard through it’s eye and use your knee to push the body off of you.

you make an uncomfortable noise at the dark walker blood, whatever that substance was, that dripped down your hand. you were so focused that you didn’t hear the growls of a walker coming at you from another direction. and another. another. another.

you mentally curse yourself for being weak, you shouldn’t have agreed to come here in the first place. you’re surrounded before you could even blink, “fuck it.” you mumble, clumsily reaching behind you and grabbing your gun.

you fire at the growing herd, unable to see carl’s scared expression when he realizes what’s happening. “shit, shit, shit.” he throws what he has in the car and slams the trunk hard, purposefully making a lot of noise to divert the herd from you to him.

it only works slightly, the walkers on the outer part of the herd stumble towards him. every one of them eating the bullets of his gun.

you’re honestly surprised by how many you’ve knocked down, but it’s not nearly enough. carl’s come to your rescue, yes, but the herd dissipates slower and slower. you back up the more they get closer and resort to shooting at one and stabbing at another that gets to close.

it’s working until it isn’t. you get cornered up against a broken window, your back hitting it harshly and a piece of broken glass piercing the skin. you do your best to stifle a pained noise, bending your body as much as you could without pushing it deeper and getting bitten.

your left leg comes up to stop the ones coming at you from that direction, your gun still raised and shooting at any target it could get. you hear carl’s shots get closer when a walker reaches out for you. it’s hands land on your shoulders, pushing you down. multiple pieces of glass stab into you and your hand begins to bleed from the intensity you’re squeezing the shard in your hand to numb the pain.

you head-butt the walker and twist your body to try and get free and hear a loud snap. you feel nothing, you assume it’s the walker’s bones. but your vision begins to darken from blood loss, and the last thing you see is the walker in front of you’s head getting blown to pieces.

your head is rushing, everything sounds and feels fuzzy. the surface under you is soft and everything smells clean. you blink your eyes open and look around the room, recognizing the infirmary quickly. you hear rustling before carl is face to face with you.

“oh my god…” his hands run along your body before leaning down to hug you. you wince at the contact he makes with your leg. you hear him mutter apologies before he pulls up a chair beside you. “you’re never going on a run again.”

you don’t even fight him, you just let your head fall back from the heaviness of it all. “what happened?”

carl moves his chair closer to your bed, grabbing your hand and softly running his thumb over the skin. “you lost a lot of blood, gave yourself a concussion, and broke your leg really badly.” carl laughs dryly, “you have a lot more to learn.”

you hum and giggle, reaching your hand up to feel a bandage wrapped around your head. your back is killing you and your leg is propped up. “i’m pretty banged up, huh?” you try to joke through the situation, but your smile falls when carl sniffles.

he hardly cries, unless there’s a good reason. “i could have lost you easily in that herd. you were seconds away from getting bit.” you shake your head and squeeze his hand, a way of nonverbally telling him you’re still here. “no, i just… i don’t know what i would do with myself.”

“go on.” you answer for him, looking at him sincerely. but the look in his eye is different,

“go on? there’s not a lot to live for. another one of the people i care about most dies…” carl runs his free hand down his face, “a part of me does as well.” you sigh, you knew he would say something like that. screw whatever happened to him, but something happening to you, rick, judy, michonne. he’d turn into something you wouldn’t even want to imagine.

“look at me,” carl takes in a breath, looking up with a calm expression. you can’t help but laugh a little at the tough guy he’s trying to be. “i’m still here, and as long as i can help it, i always will be.”

#carl grimes x reader #carl grimes fanfiction #carl grimes x y/n #carl grimes x you #carl grimes #twd x reader #twd fanfiction #carl grimes fluff #carl grimes angst #carl grimes oneshot #carl grimes imagine #twd angst #twd oneshot #twd imagine

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dashielldeveron · 2 years ago

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soulmate trope | aizawa, part one.

Aizawa's route of soulmate trope.

Part one bc tumblr formatting weird. Part two here.

Warnings: BTS mention. Reader is explicitly a kissless virgin to make Aizawa feel Worse. Part one: reader gets a mild hand injury. Threat of dub-con. Claustrophobia. Sexual content, with virgin-y themes. Part two: alcohol consumption (not by reader). Sexual content, with virgin-y themes. Fem reader.

Remember that U.A., for the purposes of this fic, is a university. Lore dropped carries over to previous and subsequent chapters.

~38k overall. ~20k for part one.

You didn’t have a soulmate, and that was just how you liked it.

Because instead of being hooked to one of your weird-ass classmates, you were free to continue to harbour your crush for your weird-ass homeroom teacher, and you nurtured your crush like a stray kitten brought out of the rain. A creature comfort, really, this affection for Aizawa Shouta—a creature no one knew you kept hidden in the back laundry room and sneaked scraps.

You’re not stupid. The man has to stay your homeroom teacher for the rest of the year, until graduation. Besides, you did have a sneaky little goal with your crush, though it will probably never come to fruition. It’s not an immediate plan in which you corner him after class to beg for sexual extra credit, no, but it’s a long, onerous, masochistic plot of delayed gratification: sometime down the road after graduation, you’ll casually run into him on a patrol, casually suggest you two share a drink to catch up, and then casually I-miss-you-terribly-sensei-you-deserve-to-sleep-more-oh-wow-your-hands-are-really-big-what-if-I-place-them-right-between-my-legs your way into his heart.

For now, the most you can do is be the best student you can. Yes, Yaoyorozu is most likely always going to beat you in chemistry and some maths, since her quirk relies on her knowledge of those subjects, but you’re positively gruntled and satisfied with your place at the top for humanities, along with trading top spots in other subjects with the same three or four people.

But mostly, you tried to be 1) resourceful and 2) not annoying, because Aizawa dealt with a lot of teacher bullshit, probably.

So, while you knew about stories in which students would seduce their teachers by favours (sexual or not), lingering innuendo, or flashing lacy underwear from their seats, you weren’t going to do that shit. 1) How dumb, 2) how embarrassing, and 3) you didn’t want your (hopefully future!) relationship founded on cliches for student/teacher relationships. How a relationship starts shouldn’t have to be a secret, either, or be something to be ashamed of.

(Because you could just picture your family’s faces at Christmas if you said something like, “Hey, this is my boyfriend, Aizawa; he used to be my teacher, and we started dating after I sucked him off under his desk while he was giving a lesson.”

Although, admittedly, there’s probably no good way to introduce a former teacher as your boyfriend.)

You figured, for now, it was enough to stand out in a quiet way, never outright begging for his attention, yet somehow landing in situations in which you got it. You liked to think that Aizawa appreciated that you read when you finished your classwork early instead of talking to your friends (guiltily activating your cringey not-like-other-girls complex that you tried to suppress), along with being attentive in class in general, and you landed an unexpected advantage in Midnight.

Since your first year’s sports festival, you’ve been her sidekick. Well, first you were her intern, and then you signed on the next school year. It was mostly academic work instead of hero work at this point in her career, but you found you liked it and her. You tagged along to record events and complete evals and rubrics, and running her errands allowed you into the staff room, where Aizawa was often curled up in his office chair or on the couch. And hopefully, Aizawa heard good things about you from Midnight.

Midnight’s current project when not teaching or on active missions was rehabbing female villains. She was easy to trust. They tended to let down their guards around her, eventually, and it fascinated you the way the system treated male and female villains differently—

“Hey,” whispered Mina, hunching forward in her desk to tap you on the shoulder, “You got back from Sakura Grove Rehab with Midnight really late last night. Did something happen with Tainted Love?”

You shot a look towards the front of the classroom, where Aizawa was gripping the podium intensely in an effort to stay standing, and once you garnered he wasn’t paying attention to you (big sigh), you turned slightly in your seat to whisper back. “False alarm,” you said, shaking your head, “She used her emergency buzzer because she heard that BTS released a music video, and she wanted to see it.”

Grinning, Mina nodded. “Normal BTS fan stuff. Is a member her soulmate, or something?”

“Don’t you think she’d be dead by now if she were? Ito said—sorry, Tainted Love said that they’re all simply very easy on the eyes and that she’s a connoisseur of human beauty. But her ass is in trouble right now, because the staff’s pissed they had to break out the emergency procedures for that.”

“I don’t know,” said Mina, fiddling with her earring, “I think that’s completely fair. It’s, uh—girlboss, gaslight, get-to-see-BTS.”

You snorted, covering your nose with the back of your hand. “That’s the wrong order, and you know it—”

“Since you have the energy to talk during a lesson—” Aizawa called towards you, his voice sharp, and your head snapped towards the front of the classroom. “—then I expect you’ll be capable of a higher calibre of effort and example for the class in your stealth presentation today.”

“Absolutely,” you said, recovering and folding your hands on your desk, “I’m ready when everyone else is.”

Aizawa gave a dismissive wave and allowed the class to leave the four minutes early to change and head towards ground beta. You’d already triple-checked that all of your support gear was ready, because it was your day in the rotation to serve as a combat example to the rest of your peers. Your focus for the past month had been on stealth, so you were presenting on your findings—presenting through whatever challenge was posed to you at the hands of one of the faculty.

Giddy, you headed towards ground beta much more quickly than your friends, who were still getting dressed. Since you’d be presenting on stealth, you had a good idea of which teacher you’d be facing.

Aizawa was waiting at the entrance, himself clad in full gear. You shot him a cheerful wave, which he lazily returned, and you retreated to one of the benches nearby and opened the book you’d brought along.

(You don’t want to aggravate him, and what’s more, if you talk to him before your challenge, you’re going to be thinking about your conversation during it. Aizawa will be more impressed with your performance if you don’t fuck it up due to daydreaming about his cock.)

Making yourself comfortable, you lay down on the bench, holding the book above you to block out the sun.

Aizawa pushed his goggles back into his hair. “You have a book,” he said (asked?) flatly as he trailed towards you.

“You have a sleeping bag,” you said, jerking your head towards the yellow bundle wadded up by the door, “We must both be relaxed about this presentation.”

Crossing his arms, Aizawa carefully leant against the door and squinted down at you. “Do you not see me as a threat?”

You tore your gaze away from your book to look up at him, tilting your head backwards to smile into his scowl. “Should I?”

Kirishima and Tokoyami burst in and broke up the conversation before it turned into something that got you off for weeks.

Once the rest of the class clambered towards ground beta, Aizawa cleared his throat and addressed the class about the challenge; he spoke with his back to you (and a couple of others), since most of the class clumped in one spot.

“Sero’s melee close-combat presentation yesterday will be a tough act to follow, but today is our first presentation on stealth. Bakugou, Aoyama—your stealth presentations won’t be following the same format, but take inspiration from it.” Aizawa stowed his hands in the deep pockets of his jumpsuit and shifted his weight forward slightly, his broad shoulders lost under his capture weapon. “Hagakure and Tokoyami, I specifically want your critique of your peer’s performance today. Be ready to give her advice. I will be the faculty member she is up against, and—” Frowning, Aizawa cut himself off, did a quick head count, and spun in your direction, his hair whipping at the movement.

Seeing you reading over on the bench (which you were still doing in what was hopefully a sexy devil-may-care, fuck-the-police way), Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose before spreading his palm over both of his eyes, heaving a sigh, and dragging his hand down his face. He then held it out in from of him and curled his fingers to beckon you closer. “C’mon; I know you said you weren’t threatened, but now you’re pushing it.”

You were sunshine; you were ease, and you were pushing it, for some reason. But you were feeling it, so you cheerfully trotted up to Aizawa, in front of whom you halted expectantly and bounced on the balls of your feet, hands holding your book behind your back as you waited for further instruction.

He cleared his throat and snapped, holding out his hand farther to confiscate your book. You shunted it towards him, and when Aizawa took it, your fingers grazed his—your pinkie and ring fingers just barely brushing against his thumb.

And.

And it’s a rickety, staticky, lightning-type thing, this wave of thunder that rushes through you, branching from where you touched him—a two-second, core-shaking rumble that only you can feel.And there’s an electric jolt.

Vibrant pink blossomed from the points of contact, staining the skin like watery ink.

Two seconds. Two seconds compressing what must be years and years of salient moments yet to come, and they—they all had him, Aizawa, in flashes of memories (?) integrating him more and more into your life. And you knew, in that shock and subsequent ooze, how it felt to be pulled into his arms and held like you’re something precious—wrapping around you while he’s half-asleep and acting on instinct, hunching and curling over your back to shield you from a backdrop of a battlefield—the feeling of you two lying together bare. You heard the crack of his voice in the morning as he nuzzled closer to you in bed, the rumbling vibration when he growled against your skin. Felt a ghost of his fingers digging into your hips as you arched beneath him (rocking, writhing), sucking a small spot on your neck, kissing down your shoulders, your back. A shiver as he trailed his hand down the inside of your thigh. A prolonged kiss to your collarbone. The passage of thunder left your body sore, like live-or-death level adrenaline had just faded. For a moment, your knees were in danger of buckling.

Aizawa must have seen—felt—the same phantom sensations, because once a noise from the class snapped him out of it, he grimaced, tucking your book and the pink-marked hand under his opposite arm.

Ducking your head to stare at your shoes, you took a step back, overheated and too aware that the class was watching.

“Recovery Girl’s office,” Aizawa said, his voice rasping, “Now.”

You bolted.

***

You slumped in the sky-blue plastic chair in the patient area of Recovery Girl’s office, unable to shake the sensation of his arms around you. You shuddered and hunkered over, a wave of misery washing over you as the last vestiges of his warmth (?) faded. Fucking figures that the only time in your life you’ve ever been in someone’s arms is in a goddamn vision and not reality.

On the other hand.

The pads of the two fingers that touched Aizawa were blemished with the same bright pink as that dust you’d inhaled the day Tainted Love’s team had invaded, and the colour wouldn’t rub off on your hero costume when you tried. An evil sort of smile spread across your face.

You jolted in your seat when the door slammed open, the knob banging into the wall, and Aizawa stormed in, shoving one of two clipboards into your lap.

“Quirk incident form,” he spat, a plastic chair scraping against the tile as he yanked it next to (but not too closely to) yours.

You slid the pen out from underneath the clip. “This says it’s a soulmate registry form.”

Aizawa glanced up at you, already a few strokes into writing his name in the first blank. “Tainted Love’s team had utilised her quirk enough before attacking U.A. that a specific form had to be made. Nevertheless,” he said, finishing the kanji for sho with so much pressure that the paper ripped slightly, “it’s a subset of the Quirk Incident Registrar.”

Huh. You supposed you should’ve known about the paperwork, since you’re working with her, but then, you’re dealing with personal rehabilitation, not the bureaucratical aftermath.

Following his lead, you quietly began to fill out your form. Basic stuff, really: name, home address, current address (dorms), quirk, soulmate’s name and quirk…

“How would you describe our inciting soulmate incident? Are you only putting first physical contact, or are you mentioning something about the, uh,” you said, leaning over to see his paper, but he flipped his clipboard up against his chest to hide it from view.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Aizawa, finally looking you in the eye. His tight grip on his pen didn’t dilute the saturation of the pink on his thumb. “And we’re not going to talk about it. You’re not going to tell anyone about this, and I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Oh, he’s repressed repressed. “Not even my mother?”

He shook his head. “Nothing important happened today, and nothing’s going to happen.”

“That’s a shame,” you said, moving onto the next section of the form, “I was already picking out China patterns.”

He flipped his clipboard out enough to continue writing. “Don’t even joke.”

“Hey, it says I need your phone number.”

“Leave that part blank. I’ll fill it out once before turning both of them in.”

That little sneak. “Wow. You really are intent on having nothing to do with me,” you said, sighing, which he echoed.

“Listen,” said Aizawa, running his hand back through his hair to sweep it out of his face, “if you genuinely require an explanation, you don’t deserve to be in school at U.A.”

You crossed your arms. “Try me, sensei.”

Aizawa winced, scrunching his eyes shut. “Don’t call me that. Listen. What I’m about to say does not apply only to me but to teachers in general. No one wants to fu—pursue a romantic relationship with a student because we are tired. Teaching is our job. No one wants to take work home when you don’t have to. You want to have a life outside teaching, and in addition to that, I have hero work.”

“There are lots of books and stuff about teacher-student relationships,” you said.

“Written by deranged maniacs who haven’t been teachers. Sometimes, it’s difficult to see your students as people, let alone the horrific romantic par—God.” Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose again, his fingers moving the press into his eyes, almost like he wanted to gouge them out. “The only reason a student may be brought up in conversation in a non-school setting would be if that student did something particularly moronic that day. At the end of the individual day, teachers are tired of their students and want to slip back into being an individual instead of an educator.”

You pursed your lips. “I have yet to hear that you personally are tired of specifically me.”

“Let me attempt another approach,” said Aizawa, hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers together, “As your teacher, I would have an unfair power over you in a relationship.”

“Hell, yeah, you would,” you said, grinning.

Aizawa turned his head away, pressing his mouth into his shoulder. “I’m not going to engage with you if you keep making comments like that.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, aware you were getting yourself in deeper shit the more you opened your mouth. “I wouldn’t want you to propose in Recovery Girl’s office, anyway.”

It took him a moment, while you waited by scribbling a doodle of your cat onto the bottom margin of your form, but Aizawa genuinely let out a hiss as he snapped towards you, his teeth gritted as his eyes flashed scarlet, hair flying upwards in an instant.

“You can’t make those sorts of quips around anyone else—at all. Nothing is going to—” He seemed to notice that you’d shrunken in your seat, away from him, your hands held up while you let the clipboard fall to the ground, and he released his quirk, mildly startled that he’d activated it on impulse. He settled back into his own cold, plastic chair and sank his chin into his capture weapon.

“I’m sorry,” you said, quiet and subdued, “Joking about stuff is how I handle it.”

“No,” he said evenly, stooping to pick up your clipboard and pen, “I knew that already. That’s how you show you understand the material in class discussions. I should’ve taken that into account.”

He held out the clipboard, pinching it by the edge. You won’t touch each other, this way.

You took it and clicked your pen, scanning down the document to where you left off. “There’s this checkbox I wanted to ask you about.”

“What checkbox—oh,” Aizawa said, his voice faltering.

Near the bottom. A single, small line and box, for the weight it held: do you want this form to double as your marriage registration?

You crossed your legs to prop one ankle over your knee and tilted your clipboard away from his line of vision. You checked it before he even answered.

“Yeah,” you said, proceeding to shade in the entire box, “Do you—”

His scowl cut you off. “Leave that blank, too.”

“Of course,” you said, drawing a couple of hearts around the inked-in box before moving on.

You finished filling it out before he did, and when he set his pen aside, he pushed on his knees to stand with a soft grunt, taking your clipboard underneath his without caring to glance over it.

“All right. The rest of class has been joined the training session that All Might was monitoring for Class B, and given the circumstances—” His eyes fell to your stained fingers. “—you’ll have to make up your stealth presentation at a later date with a different faculty member. I’ll have someone else grade your work from now on, so you won’t have to worry about my grading you more harshly because of this.”

Aizawa waited for you to nod, and after, he took a step towards the door. He ducked his head for a moment before turning back to you, saying your name under his breath. “I’m serious when I say that you can neither tell anyone about our soulmate bond nor do anything about it.”

Swallowing, you slowly stood up from your seat. “I don’t know how well I can do that, Aizawa-sensei, but I can promise that I’ll do my best not to trouble you. I haven’t been troubling you for the past three years, have I?”

“Not exactly.” Aizawa narrowed his eyes, his shoulders tensing enough that his mouth disappeared underneath his capture weapon. “Why do you ask?”

Okay. You can do this. You’re fine. You’re normal about it. You held up your hands, as if gesturing that he should brace himself. “Because that’s, uh, how long I’ve—” Been in love with you—no! Stop that. “—had feelings for you.”

Grimacing, Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. He’s done that more in the past hour than you’ve seen in the past semester. “Holy shit.”

“Please don’t—please don’t feel any fucking pressure whatsoever,” you said quickly, trying to backtrack, “I’ve been dealing with this by myself for so long that I’m good at it, so please don’t, uh. I mean, I—I live in my head; I live in my books and stories, so it’s fine and good and tolerable that I’ve never been in a relationship or kissed or anything; I’m used to it, so you don’t have to worry; I’ve been handling this by—”

Aizawa exhaled very carefully, his chest heaving in a controlled way as he dug his fist into his eye, rubbing it. “Are you telling me you’re a virgin?”

“Ah, ha. Ha,” you said, scratching the back of your neck, “Sorry if that’s too much information; that wasn’t the point—”

“You’re transferring to Class B,” said Aizawa, and he spun on his heel and sped out of Recovery Girl’s office.

Huffing, you seized the clipboards and ran after him. “Wait up,” you said, shoving the door to the stairs open after he nearly closed it on your face, “I was just trying to let you know I am open to a relationship if you want it, but I’m more than fine—” Liar, spat the voice in your head as you scrambled down the staircase after him, your footsteps reverberating against the grey-cinderblocked walls. “—if you don’t want anything to happen, but if you—”

Aizawa turned sharply to glare in your direction as you caught up to him, and when you skibbled to a stop on the same stair, he said under his breath, “Quiet.” His gaze followed how your hair fluttered with each of his harsh syllables, so he took another stair down to distance you. “Anyone on the stairs could hear you,” he said, resigned.

He crossed his arms, and you slanted the clipboards away from your chest for him to take them.

“You really didn’t know I’ve liked you?” you asked as he took them, “All this time?”

“It’s never crossed my mind,” he said, and he continued down the stairs at fast pace but one you could keep up with, “Like I said, students are a different category of person once you’re a teacher.”

Biting your lip, you followed closely enough to keep your voice down. “You never knew. That’s comforting,” you said, and after a few more stairs, you grinned. “Could that count as my stealth presentation?”

***

You would think that more was supposed to happen, now that you’re soulmates. More conversation, at least. Perhaps a conversation.

Instead, a lingering, bruising feeling branded your chest, as if you’d been kicked the night before, and often a stifling, smothering pressure weighed down on your shoulders until you could be in the same room as Aizawa again. Sometimes, it felt like steel marbles were playing pinball in your chest, the aches where they hit gnawing and settling into your bones.

(Your cat, your chocolate-point baby Dango, has been upset with the hours you’ve been sleeping away the pain instead of playing with her. Luckily, Kouda has been borrowing her some afternoons. You don’t know what he does with her, but you do appreciate very much being able to tell Dango, via Kouda, that you love her very much.

Kouda also has the advantage of being subtle when you lend him your cat, because cats aren’t allowed in the dorms. You’ve been secretly caring for Dango for over a year now, so it’s as if you, Kouda, and Shinsou, who brought Dango catnip treats, were partners in crime.)

In class, Aizawa interacted with you as little as possible, usually asking Present Mic to grade your assignments in his stead. He didn’t act any different towards you from the perspective of the rest of the class, you supposed, except you made fewer jokes and he fewer retorts. Instead, you kept your head down, reading or working on your Sakura Grove data for Midnight, and you were skimming by.

But sometimes you’d be doing Midnight’s paperwork after finishing an assignment early, hunched over your desk, when your skin prickles and the emptiness in your chest wavers for a moment, and you’d look towards Aizawa—either slumping over his desk with his chin on his palm or almost concealed inside his sleeping bag behind the podium—eyes half-lidded and boring into you.

When you look away, it’s as if he’s the one kicking you in the chest.

***

The Saturday after a particularly painful school day for you (aside from your fucking up in a combat exercise, Aizawa had been going down the line of those who’d participated to give individual feedback, and he skipped over you without hesitation), you’d planned to spend all day huddled underneath layers and layers of covers and throw blankets in bed as yet another snowstorm swept across Mustafu, but you jerked awake, completely fucking frigid, before the sun had truly risen. You blindly fumbled over the edge of the bed for any or all of your six billion blankets and felt none of them, and, making a miserable whimper as you cracked open an eye, you peered over the side of the bed.

No blankets on floor.

No…no little bedside rug.

Jesus, did you somehow kick your bed away from the wall during the night? Wait, where’s all the shit you have all over your walls this isn’t your room.

Something was pressed against your back.

Your life was over. You’re totally getting expelled from U.A. for sneaking into your teacher’s room. It’s got to be his—holding your breath, you slowly peeked over your shoulder before snapping back towards the bare wall. A flash of that yellow sleeping bag, even in bed—it’s Aizawa’s room, all right, and his back was pressed against yours, with only your sleepshirt and his sleeping bag keeping your skin from touching (unless he’s wearing a shirt, which, in that case, get sluttier, Aizawa).

In the case that somehow appearing in his bed overnight made him detest you, you elected to slither out of his living space without his ever knowing. You wouldn’t have any answers for him, even if he caught you, really, at least not this early in the morning.

In the vexingly slow process of getting out of bed without waking him up, you had the time to look around, not that there was that much to see; it was all greyish and sparse and didn’t really feel like a home at all or that he spent much time here, with the most significant pieces in his bedroom being the shoddily painted radiator (in heaven, everything is fine) and a desk with both a PC and a propped-up tablet on it, with some papers spread in front of them. But the layout of his flat appeared to mirror another part of the dormitory, so you bet the door to leave his area entirely was through the next room, and you’d be home-free.

What caught your attention, though, was a well-loved cat tower, with one of the dangling mice for the cat to bat at torn off the string and resting on the middle level. Aizawa must have a cat. Funny, since that’s illegal in the dorms. As you finally slinked off the bed entirely, you resolved to locate the cat to kiss its little forehead before slipping out of his room entirely. Cat detours are allowed.

Walking out of his bedroom, you first were hit by the pungent scent of brewing coffee and then by a cold wave of defeat. Across the kitchen counter, Aizawa’s back was towards you while he fossicked through different brands of sugar packets.

You could’ve punted that empty sleeping bag out the window.

You took one step towards the exit before he spoke, his voice gravelly from sleep: “Do you want to offer me an explanation before I write you up?”

Fucking stealth heroes. “I don’t have one,” you said, shoulders falling slack while trudging into his kitchenette—with an ulterior motive of seeing more of his place before being removed permanently. “I’m—I don’t know how I got here. You didn’t—?”

“Of course not,” said Aizawa, ripping open two differently branded packets and upturning them into his coffee. He turned to face you as he took the first sip, and you wished you could say that his eyes drank you in hungrily, or whatever, but you supposed that you have to get sluttier, too: you were just as completely and unalluringly covered as he was in his Purple Revolution sweatshirt and pants. “You don’t have any ideas from working at Sakura Grove?”

“Uh, no,” you said, “I’m not encouraged to talk to I—Tainted Love. It’s more like bringing her food and filling out paperwork for her craft requests. I am very much the middleman. I can—”

“Don’t.” Aizawa held out his free hand. “I’ll ask Nemuri.”

Nemuri. You’ve known, you supposed, that he was on a given-name basis with Midnight. You resolved to get him to call you by your first name, too. And then the thought came that you might be ruining something romantic between them? Based on every interaction you’ve had with either of them, you had no indication of romance, but Aizawa had said that teachers aim to have very private lives. Yikes. You elected to slough it off for now, because introducing feeling jealous of your mentor whom you admired very much would only complicate the situation more. You could linger on jealousy once you figured out what the hell was happening.

“Right,” you said, pulling at a hangnail, “What if this happens again?”

“We’ll put a stop to it. Simple as that.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We’ll be able to prevent this once we have more information. Until then, just handle it maturely and without fuss.”

“And here I was hoping we could cuddle,” you said, heaving a huge, fake sigh as Aizawa narrowed his eyes, and you pushed yourself up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “This is the part where you offer me coffee.”

“Get out of my apartment.”

“C’mon, Aizawa. Or I’ll spread that you have an illegal cat in the dorms.”

Aizawa hesitated just as he brought the lip of his mug to his mouth. “I don’t have a cat,” he said before taking another drink.

“Come off of it; I saw the cat tower.”

“I don’t have—”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when something prodded your thigh; a lanky, tuxedo-patterned cat had sneaked up to headbutt you before you could notice, and it climbed onto your lap to loaf. It’d be nice if your own cat were this friendly.

“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” grumbled Aizawa as he poured your coffee.

You flipped over the cat’s tag, the light catching on the rose-gold heart. “You named your cat Konpeito?”

“Eri named it.” Aizawa set the mug next to you instead of giving it to you directly—stubborn bastard, not wanting to touch you again. “Don’t make a scene when you return the mug.”

“You’re kicking me out before I even start drinking?” You tentatively gripped the handle and maneuvered the cat off your lap.

“You keep asking these questions that have obvious answers.” He gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t make too much noise on the way out; Eri’s in the next dorm over, and I don’t want you to wake her.”

***

You woke up in Aizawa’s bed again less than a week later. You’d had a dream that you’d been freezing, and the reason had been, once again, you were, since apparently Aizawa depended on his sleeping bag instead of blankets. You allowed yourself a moment of savouring the sensation of his back against yours (for real, this time, since the sleeping bag was snoring) before slipping out.

The third time, you left him a note to tell him to get a damn blanket, or else you’ll bring one of your own to keep there.

You idly took notes in Present Mic’s class, words coming slowly on paper while he prattled on. How come it was always you who was showing up in his bed? How come you always went to Aizawa, and he never came to you?

Your eyes flicked up to what Present Mic was writing on the board in skewed, thin handwriting. Had Aizawa told him the specifics? Present Mic had to know something, since he was grading your work, but Mic was also Aizawa’s friend—a luxury you didn’t have in this soulmate situation. Midnight would also be a strategic person to tell, from Aizawa’s perspective, but she hadn’t given any hint she was aware.

You drew a heart in the margins, and then you gave it legs. You made it walk off the page and onto the desk, colouring it in by crosshatching. If only you could get up and leave. Class without Aizawa dragged nowadays; where did he spend his time during school on break? Probably huddled in his sleeping bag in a slant of sunlight like a damn cat, maybe out on the grounds where he couldn’t be found. Or maybe he fucked off to a gym closet where the mats were; they’d be cosier than sleeping directly on the floor. And you could cosy up next to him, pressed up against each other in that snug—

You slammed into a wall of solid muscle, papers flying and tea spilling over the tile to seep into the rug in the teachers’ lounge, and you sprawled on your knees in the midst of it in your haste to get the fuck off of Aizawa before he could say anything, hissing as you tentatively raised your hand from the wet, broken cup. Despite the slivers of pottery in your palm, you one-handedly fumbled for the papers that had been dropped—third year evals, now crimped and tinted a yellow-green.

Aizawa took the papers, tapped the bottom to align them, and gave them a firm shake to flick off excess tea, and when you started to sweep the broken cup into your hands, he stopped you.

“Go to the faculty bathroom,” he said, pointing to the connecting lavatory, “I’ll be there in a minute with a first-aid kit.”

You had a moment to yourself in the clean, warmly-lit bathroom, so you pushed yourself up on the green marble by the farthest sink and crossed your legs, ensuring your shoes didn’t dirty anything. The pain’s setting in, but you won’t cry, not in front of him, and you’re crying, but just a bit, right? Fuck.

At the sound of the door, you hastily wiped your nose with your sleeve and did your best to look stoic, like pottery in your hand happened every day. But your eyes were too watery to even see the tweezers as he dug them out of the kit.

Standing in front of the sink, Aizawa clicked the tweezers twice (carcinisation, baby!) and held out his other hand.

You looked at it. “What do you want me to do with that?”

He said your name through a sort of scoff, which would’ve been way hotter if it had been your given name and also in bed. “Just give me your hand.”

Tears ran down your face in an overflow. “You wanna touch me?” you asked, sniffing.

“Fucking hell,” Aizawa said under his breath, “At least I know you’re all right if you’re still joking.” He shifted his jaw, scanning your palm. “If you’d rather have it at an uncomfortable angle over the sink—”

“No! No, I wanna—I wanna touch you,” you said, and you lifted your shaky, injured hand for Aizawa to hold steady. The instant his fingers cradled the back of your hand, everything fell into place: touching him was like breathing in cool, crisp air on a clear night or the smoky kindling of a fire that never goes out, like feeling sunshine on bare shoulders on a spring day with freshly cut grass, like walking into your childhood home’s kitchen when someone’s baked chocolate-chip cookies, like breathing in, like breathing, and—

You lifted your hand just a hair from his hand.

You have a stopped-up nose.

You glanced at Aizawa, whose lips were parted, his chest visibly heaving underneath his baggy jumpsuit. “Did you…?”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “I need to get the pottery out of your hand as soon as possible.”

Bracing yourself, you rested your hand in his again, and that irresistible warmth swept over you again. He’s got to be feeling it, too, so why isn’t he reacting? You’re embarrassing yourself, so why can’t he?

“Were you trying to teleport to me earlier?” he asked (distracting you from the sensation of each shard being plucked from your skin), head bent over the sink and your hand.

“No, I never—I don’t intend anything. But now that we’ve seen it, we at least know it’s not a gradual thing. Instantaneous and painless. Well,” you said, nodding towards your hand.

“Nor, I see, is it limited to my bed,” he said, shifting over when you uncrossed your legs, “What were you doing before the jump?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I was in class.” You dangled your legs off the side to get closer to him (for medical purposes of course), and wow, Aizawa smelled incredible—probably; your stuffy nose wasn’t doing you any favours—what the hell kind of soap did he use?

“Were you thinking of anything in particular? The bond?”

That’s got to be pine, and there’s something earthy mixed in. You really needed to blow your nose (Can you even name earthy scents? [Dirt?] You’re not up-to-date with masculine scents; you’ll have to find his deodorant next time you wake up in his room). “I was—” You cut yourself off with a hiss as he pulled the largest shard out. “I’m fine. It’s not that bad, really. Keep going. I don’t really remember the specifics of what I was thinking about, but I—” You cut yourself off again, this time with heavy realisation. “Goddammit. I was feeling the acute loneliness hollow out my chest again, and I was wanting to—be near you. Which explains why I’ve been teleporting to you instead of you coming to me.”

“It explains nothing,” said Aizawa, and he set the tweezers next to the shards on the edge of the sink and flipped on the faucet, guiding your hand under the water and reaching for the gauze.

“Yes, it does,” you said, openly wiping your nose on the back of your sleeve, because fuck it, this man didn’t care about you, so be gross around him. “If the teleporting is triggered by intense longing to be close to the other person, then it makes total sense that I’d be the only one teleporting, since I’m the only one who has feelings.”

“It explains nothing,” he said again, drying off your hand, “It’s only a possible contributing factor to the teleportation. Maybe it has to do with location, or timing, or action. It’s highly improbable that this physical action was caused by thought alone.” Aizawa ripped off a long strip of gauze and began to wrap it around your palm. “Don’t feel like this is a weakness on your part. I’ll probably teleport to you before the month is out.”

You let your fingers relax, your pinkie falling enough to graze his own hands as he bandaged yours. The more skin-to-skin contact you had, the more serene you felt—or maybe it was the injury adrenaline wearing off. Either way, you might fall asleep on the bathroom counter. “My bed isn’t big enough for two people.”

“That’s okay,” said Aizawa, and he slowed at the final wrap-around, holding it in place until he found the metal clips in the first aid box. “I’ve gotten very used to sleeping in odd places.”

When he stepped away to pack up the kit, you fucking whimpered on impulse at the loss of physical contact, and he froze, stuck in the motion of clicking the box shut.

“Sorry,” you said, sniffing.

His jaw tensing, Aizawa shook his head. “You should go to bed early tonight. Don’t overexert yourself.”

***

Yeah, except it’s Friday, and Jirou has been arranging this girls’ night for two weeks now.

Apparently, the karaoke bar you’re going to overheats really easily, since it’s in a refurbished building that used to be something-or-other; you’re not really listening to the explanation but were more concerned with having to wear summer clothes while it’s snowing out. The past two weeks have been strategic outfit layering plans from the lot of you, most of which have devolved into being silly and impractical (ranging from “I’ll just take off my skin and hang around in my bones when we get there” to “I will walk out of this dorm in a sleeping bag over my underwear” [the latter reminding you of Aizawa, in a pleasing, warm thought that you had to keep to yourself]).

Either way. Twisting over your shoulder, you strained to tuck in your bra so that it wouldn’t show from a mostly backless spaghetti-strap that you ended up borrowing from Uraraka, and once it was kind of hidden, you stuck your tongue into your cheek. It didn’t really sit right with you to be going out in this shit in this icy weather. You’d be a lot warmer and probably a lot more content if you peeled off these Best Jeanist jean shorts (from the Moulded to Your Ass line, unofficially titled) and crawled into your pyjamas and bed.

In the corner of your eye, your bed beckoned, with all of its blankets and stuffed animals (for when you just need to hold a little guy). What if you ditched the outing and—no. Stop that. You’ll be warm soon enough.

But with an abrupt lurch towards your bed, you found yourself spluttering into the scalding spray of a showerhead, water dribbling into your mouth between gasps and sloshing down your body. Blindly, you took a step backwards out of the cascade, but a flattened palm on the bare skin of your back stopped you before you could move farther.

“Don’t.”

The water still gushed and flowed over you, eyes scrunched tight and heart pounding. The hand on your back maximised the space between the two of you, but with the pathetic size of the shower stall, his body heat still seeped into your skin, complemented by rising steam. There’s a quiet grunt when he knocked against the frosted glass door; his shoulders must be wide enough for that to happen frequently (you swallow against a dry throat, because the man could hold all of you). If he wanted to, Aizawa, the way he has you now, could press his lips to the crown of your head, keeping his mouth there as his eyes flutter shut.

Instead, Aizawa was reaching up to tilt the showerhead away, giving you a good face-full of his bicep, and your eyes followed its movement (his jumpsuit did an excellent job of concealing a fucking powerfully built form), straining as he twisted the showerhead and relaxing as it fell back into place at his side—

“Eyes up,” said Aizawa, using his first two fingers to guide your chin back to face your front, where they lingered for a moment to tap against your jaw to ensure you’d stay there.

(With the shock of getting wet and the heat of his hand flat against your back [still there, still flooding you with an intoxicating headiness], you’d been entirely too overwhelmed to even consider catching a glimpse of his dick.)

“Aizawa-sensei—”

“Cut that out,” he said, huffing, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

For once, you’re out of the loop. But since you’re in his shower, you could take a moment to locate his soap to put a name to what he smells like and perhaps get a look at his cock along the way. Only his washcloth hung over the faucet in front of you, so you moved to turn slightly as you spoke, ducking your head to scan for shampoo bottles: “Earlier today you were saying it wasn’t my—”

Hissing, Aizawa slid two fingers through one of your belt loops and yanked, jerking you backwards into his hips for an instant before establishing that space between you again—pulling you by the belt loop blocked your view of his cock, and his hand on your back kept you from touching him in any meaningful way. But he was still as close as he could be without touching you otherwise, his breath as searing as the steam as he grumbled into your ear: “Bad girl.”

The water splashing at your feet wasn’t so hot anymore.

Aizawa tugged at your belt loop again (for a moment, when a swish of cool air washed down your ass, you worried that he’d look) and kept you in front of himself as he turned sideways to face the shower door, which he (fuck!) lifted his hand from your back to prod open.

Light flushed into the stall, and he scoffed. “I knew it,” Aizawa said, bitterness creeping into his voice, and he unlooped his finger from your belt loop to tap the fabric firmly, nudging you forward.

“Knew what?” you asked, spinning on your heel the moment you were out of the shower, water flying, and Aizawa ducked behind the frosted glass with a defeated expression. “Right,” you said, grabbing the thick towel on the toilet and tossing it to him.

“Check your fingertips.”

Tearing your gaze from his frosted-glass impression of wrapping the towel around his waist, you held up your hands. “They look fine. My bandages are soaked, though, so I’ll have to redo—oh, okay, fuck. My soulmark is gone.” You’re not going to cry in front of him, and definitely not twice in one day, because that’d be—

“Sensei,” you said, choking up and curling your shaky fingers into an even shakier fist, “Sensei, my soulmark is—I don’t want my soulmark to be gone, fucking, I—” On accident, you slammed your elbow into the glass door when you were trying to—please get closer (so goddammit, if your eyes water, it’s from hitting your funny bone). “I don’t want my soulmark to disappear; I adore you and want—”

“It hasn’t disappeared,” Aizawa said softly as he stepped out of the shower, gripping his towel in addition to the firm knot, and he pointed behind you towards the mirror.

While Aizawa eased down onto the closed toilet to towel-dry his hair, you took the four, wet steps to the sink and wiped off the clouded steam. No difference in your reflection.

When you shot a baffled look towards Aizawa, he gently raised his eyebrows and his finger to twirl it once. So, you turned around to look over your shoulder at your back, where his pink handprint put all body glitter to shame in how well it reflected the overhead light and in how quickly it was spreading (ink leaking outside of the handprint in watery bursts before slowing, never detracting from the shape of his hand, though the ink seemed to rise more than fall, especially near his middle and ring fingers between your shoulder blades).

He was holding up his newly pink palm, wiggling his fingers in your direction.

You returned to him (really to stand on the bathmat, since you’re drenching his floor) and raised your hand to touch him, first glancing at him for his approval. Aizawa looked at your hand and back at you, and after he wetted his lips, he nodded and got back to towel-drying his hair.

You hesitated. Is this really so nonchalant, so trivial to him? It’s everything to you.

You dropped your hand to your side, mouth twitching. “What shampoo do you fucking use.”

“Hm?” He didn’t even look at you.

“You smell fucking good all the time. What’s. What scent is your soap,” you were saying, in the same, flat tone you’d use to argue with your landlord about finally fixing your leaky roof after two years.

Aizawa squeezed water out of the last of his hair and spoke in that infuriatingly gravelly, just-woke-up voice of his. “It’s sandalwood.”

Sandalwood. That’s earthy, you guessed. “Then where’s the pine come from?”

“That would be the aftershave,” he said, folding the hair towel in half twice and setting it aside, “You were going to touch me, but now you’re upset. Care to explain?”

You plucked at your wet shirt before crossing your arms over it. “Does this matter to you? The soulmate thing.”

“You matter to me,” he said, standing with a quiet grunt, “Let’s get you reasonably dry before going back to your dorm.”

“Oh, shut up with that teacher bullshit,” you said, following him to a cabinet, “You care about me through the lens of a student, because everyone in this fucking dorm is your—fuck, I’m. You’re insufferable.”

“I can’t lend you clothes, but I should have enough large towels to keep you warm.” Aizawa reached for the top shelf, with beach towels. “However, I recommend against going out tonight with the rest of your friends.” He handed you a new-looking, blue-pineappled towel.

You angrily wrapped it around you, pissed that you instantly felt better. “Oh, is it because you’ve gotten me wet—” Aizawa draped another towel around your shoulders, tucking it in a little to secure it. “—and going out into this fucking ass iceberg weather would get me sick—” Another towel, this one with Present Mic’s radio show logo on it. “—and then I’d have to miss one of your precious days of class—”

“Is that what you want me to say?” He arranged two more towels around you at once, tying the outermost one in a knot. “Or are you waiting to hear that I want you to hide away while you bear my mark?” He tugged your drapery down a smidge so that you could use your arms a bit—at the least, use your key to your room. “When in reality,” he said, taking a step backward and appraising his handiwork, “I want you to be comfortable and content. And I don’t think you’d be either if you went out after this, even if you got ready again.”

Goddammit.

“And you’ve had a long day with strange revelations. You have a new injury. Going to bed for the night will facilitate healing. Your body will have more time to process the day.”

Groaning, you said, “Fuck you for being right.”

“Thanks.”

Since you hadn’t touched him earlier, you took the opportunity to clonk your forehead against his chest (dense muscle was evidently comfy). The soulmark warmth blossomed throughout your body from the spot, and you took your time to appreciate it, taking a couple of unhurried breaths against his skin, dry save for some stray running droplets.

Aizawa sighed, the planes of his chest rising and falling under your close and thirsty scrutiny. “This counts, y’know. As staying up late.” If you hadn’t seen him put his hand on your arm, you wouldn’t’ve known, due to the thickness of the towels. “I told you to go to bed.”

You blearily looked up at him. “Take me there, then.”

After a moment, Aizawa said, “I have to feed my cat,” and he opened the bathroom door to escape. Before he left, he spun back around, and you would’ve sworn he was fighting a smile, if you hadn’t known how he felt about you.

“But first,” he said, “let me fix that forehead situation of yours.”

***

Picking up the folders from the office mailbox, you flipped out the flag for read/empty and trailed back to the office space that you and Midnight shared at Sakura Grove, idly waving to some co-workers as you flipped through the files. Pushing the door open with your foot, you dropped the folders onto Midnight’s desk and hurried over to lift the shaking electric kettle from the heat, since Midnight was too absorbed into her patient evaluation at which she was typing away.

You poured the boiling water the round teabag, watched it rise to the top of Midnight’s teacup, and bit back a cry—you clutched the chilled windowsill to stay standing, struck by an overwhelming dizziness that blacked out the edges of your vision and crept to darken it entirely; a bowling ball has just hit your chest and dropped to your toes, the ache reverberating through your veins as you caved and doubled over, nausea settling into your gut.

Through the dots clouding your vision, you barely make out Midnight stretching her arms over her head.

These attacks have been happening more and more. If Aizawa can have a friend in the know, so can you.

“Kayama-sensei,” you managed to croak, but she didn’t hear you.

You tried again, and she turned, her expression drooping when she saw you. “Is the tea that bad?”

Eventually, Midnight helped you into your seat across from hers with your own cup of tea, the pain draining away in the process of vague explanation.

“So, you genuinely think you’re starting to die because your soulmate won’t acknowledge you romantically. Easy solution in sight,” she said, picking her teacup up by her fingertips to breathe in the steam, “Just pick out some nice lingerie—you can use my sponsor discount for Wacoal—and arch your back when you lie in his bed for him to find. I can give you some tips on how to suck—”

“Kayama-sensei,” you said, your vision finally back to normal, “You do not understand how much I can’t do that.”

Her tongue flicked into her cup, testing the heat. “I’ll bite. Why not?”

“My soulmate is, um.” You frowned into your tea. “I’ve liked my soulmate for a long, long time. Before the soulmate stuff existed.”

Midnight ran her tongue over her lips, the corners quirking upwards. “So? All the more reason to make your feelings known and emphasised, now that you have an excuse for a legitimate relationship. Since he already knows about how you feel, you should keep trying to seduce him. All men crack eventually.”

“He won’t accept a lousy attempt at seduction, because—aside from I have no clue how to do that, I don’t—he’s, uh…” You trailed off, took a swig of tea instead of finishing, and ended up choking a bit at the heat.

“Yes? What’s the juicy detail you’re reluctant to share? Is he married? Is he a public figure? Is he too much older or younger than you?”

Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “Do you already know? Are you just making me say it?”

Tight-lipped, Midnight made a loose, dismissive gesture and moved to get back to her patient file.

“Fine. Fine! If anyone can help me with this, it’s you, because it’s—goddamn,” you said, deflating and sinking down into your seat, “It’s fucking Aizawa-sensei, okay? My soulmate is my stupid homeroom teacher.”

“Congratulations,” said Midnight, saving the document and shutting down the computer, “You have earned the right to call me by my given name for being so honest.” She spun in her chair to give you her full attention. “So. Shouta.”

“Did you know already? Were you just—”

“I had my suspicions but no concrete evidence,” she said, holding up her hand, “Just some observations from watching you for the past three years.” Tilting her head, she adjusted her glasses before lifting her cup to her mouth again. “Now, the reason why you can’t just seduce him is crystal clear now. I submit that you could start going to bed in skimpier clothes in the event you teleport to his apartment again, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Shouta’s got a steel will. He’s not going to violate that student-teacher professional relationship.”

“I know,” you said, slumping so far down in your seat that your ass was falling off of it, your chin touching your chest, “but if I’m in pain from not being with him, he probably is, too. And if he won’t acknowledge me romantically, I wanna know if there’s something I can do to alleviate the pain that we’re both feeling. He shouldn’t be distracted from his work because of it.”

“That’s exactly what I want to hear.” Midnight jabbed a finger in your direction. “Starting today, you’re promoted. You’re going to be Tainted Love’s primary monitor.”

“What?” You shot up in your seat. “But I haven’t—I haven’t even had a proper conversation with her before—”

“But she’s used to having you around,” Midnight said evenly, opening her top desk drawer, “To her, you’re in a position of authority but not a threat. You’ve seen how she likes to talk, anyway, and you’re in a perfect position to find out more schematics of how her quirk works on the individual level.” Midnight smiled and handed you Ito’s folder. “Plus, she can’t do anything more to you, right? You’ve already got a hell of a soulmate.”

“Okay,” you said, hesitantly taking her file to clutch it to your chest, “So, you just want me to talk to her? Try to solve my problems?”

“Yeah. And anything you find out about her quirk that she hasn’t shared so far—because she hasn’t exactly shared much past the first interrogation—is welcome intelligence. Record anything new. Keep Ito happy. You’ll be golden. I know you’re more than capable.”

“Funny,” you said, flipping through the file and joining Midnight as she stood, “This feels planned. Got anything else motivating you?”

“Besides a perverse desire to see my friend and my sidekick get together?” Midnight grabbed her whip from the hook on the side of her desk. “I was going to assign you this, anyway. Ito isn’t a threat anymore, and I need to focus on preparing for Serendipity’s arrival next week from St. Philomena’s. Even the airline we finally convinced to transport her has backed out, so I’m scrambling to bribe another.”

That had slipped your mind—Serendipity was being transferred to Sakura Grove for rehabilitation, mostly because no one else wanted to house the most potently dangerous female villain in the Americas. “Understandable,” you said, holding open the door for Midnight to follow closely behind, “When do I start?”

***

Fifteen minutes later, you were setting a tray with tea and powdered thumbprint-cookies in front of Ito at her desk in her room. She raised a sharp, white eyebrow at how the dishes clattered at your shaky handling, but she nodded in thanks and turned back to her book. You guessed you were lingering awkwardly by the door a bit too obviously, so she rolled her eyes and set her book upside-down on the desk.

“You’re my new handler, right?” she asked, scratching under her eye.

“That’s me,” you said, hands folded tightly in front of you, “Midnight says you cleared stage five, so you’re safe to be delegated off to me. I have your stage six schedule printed out—”

“But why are you still here? Everyone usually leaves as soon as possible.”

“I’m the only staff member immune to your quirk,” you said, sliding her schedule out of her file.

“Immune.” Ito grinned and crossed her legs. “That’s interesting. How do you know that?”

Well, Midnight said to be honest in order to get honesty from Ito. You sucked in through your teeth. “I’m only immune because you’ve already given me a soulmate. I was the, uh, student you landed on when you attacked U.A.”

Scrunching up her face, Ito scanned you from head to foot, and when she finally stopped at your chest, she nodded. “Ah. I remember you. You’ve got good tits, kiddo,” she said, reaching for her tea, “Be proud of ‘em. You allowed to tell me how it’s going?”

You glanced behind you at the door, pretending to be considering the trouble of talking to her, and when you prodded it shut with your foot, Ito’s grin stretched all the way across her face, her teeth cutting into her lower lip.

“I’ve been desperate to talk to you,” you said, dragging the extra chair closer to hers, “My soulmate is being a little bitch.”

“I like you better than Doc Kim already,” said Ito, and she took a noisy slurp of her tea. “Spill it.”

“I need your advice on what to do about the pain.”

“You found your soulmate already? Then you shouldn’t be feeling any,” she said, shrugging.

“No, I need you to tell me about what to do about the pain. I don’t know if he’s feeling it, but it’s fucking killing me, and he won’t do anything about the soulmate stuff because he doesn’t like me—”

“Back up.” Ito slammed her cup on the tray, spilling tea. “You’re not making any sense. Start over. Tell me about your soulmate.”

Groaning, you buried your face in your hands, leaning back in your chair until your back popped. “He’s my professor, and I’ve liked him for years. Since I met him, pretty much.”

“Hot. He got a sensei kink?” She shoved two thumbprint cookies in her mouth at once, and she nudged the plate in your direction.

“Eh,” you said, weighing your options, “It’s possible. But he doesn’t—”

“Nice. So, he says he’s not gonna do anything while you’re his student, which means he’s burning with shame and sexy, sexy doubts about how good of a man he is. Always sexy to bring a man to his moral and literal knees. Are you wearing fun things to class?”

“We have a uniform.”

“Shame,” she said, gulping down more tea, and then she cocked her head. “Unless.”

“No.”

“Spoilsport,” said Ito, gesturing towards the cookies again. This time you took one, pinching it absentmindedly in your lap. “I think I want to go on my daily walk around the courtyard. Is there room for that in my new schedule?”

You checked it. “I’ll make it work.”

Minutes later, you and Ito were bundled up and strolling the perimeter of Sakura Grove’s courtyard, full of other in-patients in team recreation in the middle and in private conversation on some of the benches.

“I’m still not with you,” Ito was saying as she stared up into the bare limbs of a sakura tree, “I don’t understand why you’re feeling the soulmate pain. It shouldn’t be affecting you, since you know and have met your soulmate.”

You huffed, breath visible. “Well, if you don’t know, then I’m lost. But if he’s not going to complain about the pain, then I suppose I’ll just have to deal with it. I like him too much to bitch about it to him, I guess.”

Ito shoved more of her long, white hair underneath her pom-pom hat. “Then it’s probably the same for him, with him liking you too much to bother you about it.”

“Nah.” You stepped into one of her footprints, the snow crunching under your weight. “He doesn’t like me, and I don’t think he ever will, since once a student, always a stu—”

Ito’s head snapped towards you, cheeks rosy from the cold. “What did you say?”

“My soulmate doesn’t like me, because—”

“You said that earlier, too,” said Ito, and she looked around for other monitors before jerking her head for you to follow her. She guided you in a casual-but-not trail away from any doors or eavesdroppers, and she said in a hushed voice, “You do know that my quirk doesn’t assign soulmates randomly, right?”

“What the hell? Say more right now,” you said, taking smaller steps to stay closer to her.

“Oh, well, that’s news for me. I figured they’d captured my team’s notes on my quirk by now. Okay, well, report this, or not,” said Ito, jabbing a finger towards you, “How much do you know about probability? Yeah, yeah, more math—yes, soulmates usually to inhale the same cloud of my quirk to be considered soulmates, but there are other factors, too. See, you were making sense until you said your soulmate doesn’t like you back.”

“Okay, I’m not following—hey, let’s walk more towards the centre; I think those two by the door are watching us.” You steered the two of you back onto the typical path but stayed close to speak quietly.

“In addition to breathing from the same cloud, two people have to have had a moment of genuine, mutual attraction between each other. Not, like, you pass someone hot on the street and think you’d suck the soul out of their dick before dissuading yourself from the impulse, because they’d clearly ruin your life, but a moment of true, lingering affection for someone that you don’t talk yourself out of. A moment worth thinking about later. Hey, Rika,” Ito said loudly as you passed another patient on the path, “Good to see you today. How’s your cult? You don’t know? Great! Healthy! See you later!” Ito and you sped-walked past her, and once Rika was out of earshot, Ito lowered her voice again. “You don’t have to know the person, but maybe a stranger shared a moment of kindness with you. Maybe an old friend laughed in a new way. It’s a moment where you’re attracted to something past the surface level in a person, even for a brief second. I don’t give out soulmates with absolutely no attraction, even if it may seem that way.”

You, fuming, kicked snow out of your path. “That bitch likes me!”

Ito nodded. “And not just for your tits.”

“Shit,” you said, pushing hair out of your face and pulling your scarf to be snugger, “Nothing I do is gonna—”

“I can help,” said Ito, glancing over her shoulders again for eavesdroppers.

You stopped in your tracks. “But why would you do that? I’m just some weirdo.”

“Because when I have employed the help I’m about to offer you, it has been very, very funny to me,” she said, “and I don’t get outside news except through fucking letters.”

You joined her on the path again. “How many times have you done this?”

Ito looked up as she bit the pad of her thumb, trudging through the snow. “You’ll be the twelfth time. It’s like a part two to my quirk, but I usually don’t come across victims again to offer this sort of thing—and people usually don’t need it. Step one: we’ll need an airtight container.”

***

Cut to that evening in your dorm room, with you hunched over a ziploc bag sealed to the brim with her quirk’s pink dust.

Door locked. Lights down. Cosy pyjamas. Already under the covers in bed.

An increased probability of cliches, Ito had said.

You flipped on the flashlight on your phone to shine through the dust, pink light scattering on the ceiling like a home-planetarium.

Inhaling her quirk for the second time would still affect you, but it wouldn’t assign you another soulmate. Rather, it would dramatically increase your chances for romance tropes to occur in your real life. Stuff that only happens in rom-coms and fanfic could start to happen to you and your soulmate.

(“Like sharing a bed when there’s only one of them,” Ito had said, swirling her finger through the leftover powdered sugar and licking it.

“We’ve already got that covered with the teleporting,” you’d said.

“Shifting is what I’ve been calling the teleports, babe.” Ito had smacked her lips. “And maybe you’ll wake up grinding on his hard-on, now. Do you know how big his dick is?” she’d asked, and then she’d clicked her tongue. “Never mind; I wanna know about his thighs.”

“I can—”

“Or maybe he’ll spill coffee on your shirt and have to pat you dry, accidentally making your shirt see-through and getting flustered at your tits. Or maybe he’ll have to pick you up in the rain, and oh, no, the weather’s too bad for you to go home, and you have to wear his clothes, and—”

You’d snorted at the thought of wearing one of his jumpsuits. He didn’t seem to have much else.)

Either way, you had your ziploc bag of soulmate trope dust, and you had a soulmate reluctant to acknowledge you—even though you knew now that he liked you, that bitch. You’d prepared accordingly, already in bed, since Ito had said you’d likely pass out again. It sat a bit unpleasantly in your stomach that you were going to rely on cliches to jumpstart your relationship with Aizawa, since you hadn’t wanted to do that in the first place with teacher-student relationship cliches. But you could avoid that the best you could, you supposed.

You lay down in bed, adjusting your hair on your pillow, and with the bag on your chest, you popped it like bubble wrap, the dust surging into your face in a rosy burst.

***

Popping it Tuesday night led to a cruelly dull Wednesday, since, as seniors, Wednesdays were off-days for the hero course to spend more time in the field. You weren’t needed at Sakura Grove, as you remotely typed up your reports and sent them their way, and since all your friends were with their mentors, the hours crawled. You puttered around online for a while, before cracking open a book whose plot couldn’t hold you. Since no one was around to witness, you plodded downstairs to the kitchen in your pyjamas, stole one of Aoyama’s green tea popsicles for an early start to lunch, and booted up the console Kaminari kept in the commons.

While the screen loaded, you plopped onto the couch, licking the last of the tea off the wooden stick. What does Aizawa do on Wednesdays now that his class is loose? He frequents a cat café; the punch-card was poking out of his wallet on his bedside table last time you shifted to his room. But there are the mundanities—grocery shopping, catching up on sleep, grading, caring for Eri. And hell, how you’d like to share those moments with him—perhaps scrunching his nose at a change of ingredients of his favourite chip, stroking the neck of his cat in a beam of sunlight, braiding Eri’s hair with ribbon at the start of a school day.

Fuuuuuck, when will Aizawa let you in?

The next moment, you’re suffocating. Pitch black softness, swaddling and falling around you, sweltering within seconds, sweat beading at your hairline. You took a desperate, gasping breath—relieved in the slim moment a slant of light puckered in front you, until the hand shoved onto your face, palm feeling for your mouth and shutting your jaw for you. Within the cocoon, the frame on either side of you tensed, and—the hand fumbled, once you’d quieted, in the crack of light to clumsily cup your cheek, patting it abruptly before rubbing the thumb over your cheekbone.

From that touch and the peace it swept over you, you knew where you’d shifted: kneeling right between Aizawa’s legs in his sleeping bag. But he’s sitting upright in a chair and needed to silence you, so where was he right now?

You settled, leaning against the hard muscle of his calf and into his palm, nosing at it to signal you knew it’s him.

“You have twenty-seven minutes to finish your tests,” called Aizawa, and for the first time, you picked up on pens clicking, paper shuffling, and chairs scuffing against polished tile. “Don’t ask me when they’ll be graded; Kuranosuke-sensei isn’t set to return until Saturday.”

Bless him.

But okay. You’ve got about half an hour stuck between his legs under this desk in front of what’s likely a bunch of younger business students.

Huh, if you only inched your chin forward on his chair, you’d be perfectly positioned to nuzzle against his cock, maybe suck it if you maneuvered your arms out of the sleeping bag’s constrictions. But, you supposed, it would be very mean to tease him in that way in front of students who haven’t built that respect for him, and you’d prefer your first blowjob to be where Aizawa could throw his head back, face flushed, groaning loudly with a gentle, guiding hand on the back of your head—hey, now’s not the time.

You didn’t want him to feel the shame of having an erection in front of who were essentially strangers. It’d…you don’t want to humiliate your soulmate. You love that idiot.

But Aizawa was shifting his hips, to your horror, the thick fabric of his jumpsuit brushing your face in the moment his hand retracted, and the sleeping bag was shuffled down past the top of your head, which grazed the underside of a desk drawer.

You rested your chin towards the edge of his chair—yes, mere inches between your face and his clothed cock, but your breath probably wasn’t even hitting it. From this angle, you and Aizawa could share that suspicious glare he shot you, so you backed up the half-inch for your chin to rest of the very brink of the chair—he closed his eyes, his shoulders losing their stiffness—and you leant your head against his thigh, just on the inside of his knee. He heaved a silent sigh, giving a subtle roll of his eyes, and minutely nodded—an act so slight that if you hadn’t been looking for it, you would’ve missed it.

Aizawa’s hand came to rest atop your head, scratching his fingers gently against your scalp. Part of it’s the soulmate bond; part of it’s being touch-starved, but his gentle scratch was so fucking soothing that a hazy, relaxed sleepiness came over you. Your head sagged, nose pressing towards the underside of his thigh, while your eyes crossed. Maybe it’s the magic of his sleeping bag, but you’re so drowsy that the scratch of his short nails almost drowned out clicking footsteps approach the desk.

Aizawa froze, his hand stilling in your hair.

“What are we supposed to do with our tests?” came the whisper of a business student.

Aizawa made a grunt and moved as if he were stretching and reaching for something on the desk. “Whatever you normally do. Is there not a routine?”

“The basket we turn papers in to is missing.” The shadow of the student’s feet grew closer to the desk.

“Not my problem. Just leave them on the corner of the desk—” A tinny clink echoed through the teacher desk when Aizawa tapped it—his thumb swiping over your forehead to calm you.

“Gotcha,” said the business student, and you thought you were in the clear before she asked, “What—what are you doing under…?”

“Oh?” Aizawa jolted the chair forward to hide you, but with the jolt came his clothed cock pressed against your face; even through the thick fabric you could tell it’s his shaft pressed against the length of your nose and corner of mouth and balls nestled against your chin and cheek. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to text under my desk, the same as all of you do when you think I can’t see.” A metallic-sounding object scraped across the desktop, followed by an impulsively-large-sounding gulp.

“Your phone’s on your desk, sir,” said the business student.

His fingers now curled into your hair in a vain attempt to pull you away from his cock, but he couldn’t, with the scant room under the desk and bulk of his sleeping bag. Trying to be polite, you opted to avert your gaze from his crotch (even though it was right there), which shuddered so hard that you saw and felt it.

“It’s a common practise for pro-heroes to have secondary phones purely for work,” said Aizawa, taking another loud swallow of his drink. “You may want to invest in one.”

“Gotcha,” said the business student again, just as another shadow joined her at the desk and whispered for her to hurry up.

When they both retreated, Aizawa stealthily scooted back to gain some space in a move that looked like he was simply leaning back in his chair to drain the tea out of his cup—and you savoured the unshielded view of the tender skin of his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed—and hey, that’s—Aizawa relaxed enough to glance down at you, elbow on the arm of the chair, holding in the air the teacup you gifted him to replace the one you broke (nowhere nearly as nice as the pottery one you smashed presumably was, but its deep crimson glaze had reminded you of his quirk-activated eyes).

You were strangely moved that he was using your gift so quickly after he received it, in public, and not where you were supposed to see it being used.

Your eyes darted between the cup and his eyes until he noticed, and he raised the teacup just a hair in a toast. Nodding with a tired smile, you wormed your arm around to unwind his hand from its grip in your hair, unintentionally still tight, and held his gaze as you kissed the pad of each finger, starting with his little finger, the pink flashing from each tip until you pressed your lips against his thumb.

Aizawa never looked away, but he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. You wondered for a moment if he liked the thumbprint bisecting the centre of your lips, the rounded edge aligning with the dip in your cupid’s bow. But his expression betrayed nothing, and instead, he raised the teacup to his own mouth, his hand returning to your hair for the rest of the period.

After the last student had petered out of the classroom and Aizawa had given an uncharacteristic little wave as the last one close the door behind her, Aizawa held out a groan as he kicked away from the desk, his hands flying to adjust his lower jumpsuit and then raking his fingers back through his own hair.

“How are you holding up?”

You balked. “How am I?” You shoved at his knees so that you had room to stand, and you sat on the desk.

Aizawa pointedly nudged your legs together (you hadn’t even thought of it that way). “Nice pyjamas.”

“You’re lucky I don’t sleep naked,” you said, plucking at your shirt.

“Am I?”

Was that…was he flirting?

Your surprise must have shown on your face, because he continued. “You shouldn’t walk back to the dorms like that. I don’t have anything at the school besides a spare jumpsuit, but Hizashi should have his jacket draped on his chair in the faculty lounge.”

“How romantic,” you said, flicking the side of his teacup for the hell of it.

“I don’t have another class to sub until the period after this one,” he said, pocketing his phone and other personals on the desk before handing the teacup to you, “Let’s go.”

Present Mic was gloriously absent from the faculty lounge, so there was no one to stop Aizawa from laying his stuff on his desk and swiping the jacket off the back of Mic’s chair. You set the teacup on the cat coaster and had just barely turned his way before he was sweeping the open jacket around your shoulders. Aizawa lifted the leather while you slipped your arms inside, and he zipped you up, stopping the zipper just above the curve of your boobs. You looked down, and he flicked the zipper up at you with a smirk.

“Are we married yet?”

His hand dropped from your zipper. “I saw what you did with the registration form. You’re not funny.”

“I happen to be hilarious,” you said, “I assume to want to adjust the mark?”

Nodding, Aizawa waited for you to tilt your head up and to the side. “I am not marrying you. You’re my student.” He grazed the usual spot behind your ear with his ring finger.

“And someday I won’t be.” You shivered as the frisson of his touch rolled through you. “You’d rather have even more paperwork, bureaucratical hoops, and possibly a ceremony at a later, inevitable date than one simple checkmark on a sheet? Not very logical, sensei.”

He frowned. “Stop that.”

A beat. “No otherwise rebuttal?” you asked, grinning, “You agree, then, that we’re going to end up together? That we’ll be—”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Funny,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek, eyeing Snipe in the far corner of the room, “Then, hey. Compromise. What if we just hang out with no romantic or sexual connotations whatsoever? I wanna get to know you better. You’re cool.”

Aizawa crossed his arms and followed your gaze to Snipe, who was bent over in his seat, cleaning one of his guns. “Think about it. Would you trust a teacher who spends time outside of school with a student?”

“How’s the training with Shinsou going?”

“You are not funny.”

“And everybody knows you’re training Shinsou, and they’re fine with it. You could say you’re training me,” you said, stepping closer to him, looking him in the eyes despise his hunkering down into his scarf, “Please say you’re training me. I want to spend time with you. Hell, actually train me. You could make me strong enough that you don’t have to worry about me, or any bullshit. C’mon, Aizawa. Please.”

“That,” he said, “I can easily deny you. Now, get back to the dorms. I’d like to—”

“What? Why,” you said with a whine, “How can you say that so quickly? You didn’t even think about it.”

“Yeah?” Aizawa turned to his desk to boot up the computer. “It’s because you’re already strong enough to take care of yourself. I don’t have to worry about you in a fight,” he said, just barely crinkling his eyes, so you figured that he’s smiling beneath his capture weapon, “Keeping you from being a fool—now, that’s something I’ll have to watch for.”

You groaned. Loudly. And for way too long. “Whatever. May I sit on your lap while you grade?”

“No,” said Aizawa, not missing a beat, “Go back to the dorm.”

“You want me to check on Eri?”

“Sure. That’d be—really nice. Let me know—”

“Yeah?” Grinning, you bounced on the balls of your feet. “How am I supposed to do that? Sounds like I might need a certain phone number.”

Aizawa collapsed in his cracked, leather lounge chair and spun it towards his cubicle desk. “No need. If you don’t shift to me in the next half hour, I’ll assume everything’s fine.”

“Oh, come on. I feel like I deserve some sort of treat for not mentioning your half-chub while it was in my face earlier.”

Aizawa rubbed at his temple, his eyes strained. “I’m busy grading and don’t have time to talk.”

He was staring into a blank screen.

“Fine, you big baby. I’ll concede to you this time,” you said, and before you could lose your nerve, you leant over to kiss the top of his head.

You’d bolted for the door before he could even turn around.

***

It was supposed to be a routine field exercise.

The hero course had been split into teams, each under the leadership of a faculty member, for a field assessment as twenty percent of your grade for your final semester. As an extension of the personal study starting with the student presentations from earlier, you were in the group focusing on stealth headed by Aizawa, along with Bakugou, Aoyama, and Todoroki (who swopped into your group last minute, since Midnight declared that he needed to get away from her group working on public relations). Bummed that no other girls were in the group, you resolved to make it work by being better than the boys. Not to mention that the three included would, hopefully, be dense enough to miss the subtler interactions between Aizawa and you that betrayed something else going on.

The four of you were to know as little as possible about the assignment as possible before going in, so you all spent the week leading up to it making contingency plans (you’d been told not to go out otherwise that week, so Midnight had to do her own work, for once, at Sakura Grove), with maps of the city and subway splayed out on the floor in the common room, along with bowls of trail mix Bakugou had thrown together, claiming that Aoyama’s stuff was bullshit (though you had enjoyed it very much when you ate it in secret that morning). All you’d been told was that you’d be making an escort in secret, without the target even knowing you were there.

No contingency plan could account for this.

A thunderstorm popped up on the radar out of nowhere, delaying the plane’s arrival, and the airport radio signal had been scrambled, fed into a different language, and back again. If you’d been allowed more details during preparation, you’d have more of the story, but all you could piece together now was excruciatingly obvious: the airport’s east wing exploded and caved before the plane even hit it, and now you were trapped underground under wet, crumbly tonnes of rubble, confined to a pocket of space barely tall enough to stand in, with the only structure keeping half of an airport bathroom’s mirrored wall from collapsing and crushing you being the charred, lower third of a column from the airport courtyard.

“You can’t blow our way out,” you hissed at Bakugou, who was climbing his way up the column to prod at the ceiling, “The column’s load-bearing.”

“I know that,” Bakugou said, contorting his upper body and neck as he gawped with his mouth open at the debris above him, “I’m just seein’ if there’s any light from the surface comin’ through, or if there’s anywhere rainwater’s drippin’ in.”

Hunching with his upper back grazing the rubble ceiling at the tallest point in the collapsed space, Aizawa frantically fussed with his work phone (which he genuinely had, after all) and his radio, unable to get a signal. “Be careful with your movements,” he said, mind barely in the conversation, “You could make the debris slip, or it could get weighed down with rain and further collapse. At worst, you want it to settle. Aoyama, are you getting anything?”

Tapping the AI filter on his sparkle shades away, Aoyama tore his gaze away from his handheld device’s screen. “Alas,” he said with a quivering frown. His ankle was being wrapped by Todoroki, who had been careful to refill the place in the concrete where Aoyama’s foot had been with ice, keeping the space intact.

“It’s fine; you’re doing well. Keep an eye on the signal. We want to know if we get one.” Aizawa handed his phone to you, giving you a short nod and the same job. “Todoroki, keep that cavity frozen. Keep an eye out for similar spot about to collapse and do the same.”

“I’m assuming this isn’t part of the assignment, since you’re taking charge,” you said under your breath to Aizawa, your back to the others as you stooped to stand yourself, arms crossed, “What relevant information can you share about the assignment that might get us out of here? Who were we escorting? If we know who they have for allies, then we can start to understand how the signals are scrambled and how to walk out of this situation.”

Aizawa stuck his tongue in his cheek. “None of it’s relevant. Our target has been isolated for well over four years and was being processed by professionals. She wouldn’t have had any opportunity to sabotage this procedure; St. Philomena’s has kept our target from having untracked outside communication.”

An uneasy stone dropped into the pit of your stomach. “St. Philomena’s,” you said slowly, biting your lip, “That’s a women’s penitentiary.”

Aizawa opened his mouth to answer but instead inhaled a mouthful of dust as the earth shook and clattered around you. Bakugou braced the column while you and Aizawa kept the bathroom wall steady, but the mirror shattered and fell with the wall, with Todoroki grabbing you out of the way of the sink from crushing your legs, icing the concrete shards into a makeshift support for the column, enough for Bakugou to twist out from underneath it. You gasped in deep breaths of powdery concrete yet dug into wet clods of silt and grime with the heels of your boots.

The ceiling had caved in by about two feet in height, and if Aoyama hadn’t skibbled away from his spot in the corner, he’d be buried under glass and tile. You experimentally knelt and stretched towards the ceiling—good for you, for having some room to move upwards, but Aizawa could only sit, now. Every heaving breath from your friends was too close for your liking, and the stone fell from your stomach right into your gut when you noticed the steady trickle of water between the rocks and down the column, cutting a clear, ivory path through the grey dust coating it. Bakugou scooted out of the ways of its dripping, letting it instead drain in a puddle next to him.

You and Bakugou nearly jumped out of your skins at the skrrrt of Aizawa��s radio, but nothing came through except static.

“We’re okay,” said Aizawa, once Aoyama started to show signs of hyperventilation, “The static is a good sign. Even if we can’t communicate specifics, they have a location on us. They know we’re down here, and if it seems like they’re taking too long, remember that civilians are the priority. We’ll be all right.”

Claustrophobia.

Not your favourite.

But Aoyama was clearly having a worse time handling it, so it’s better to set an example for him—see how calm you are? See how much you’re not being selfish, curling into Aizawa’s arms for him to pet your hair until it’s over, keeping him all to yourself, even though it’d be really easy to pretend like it’s the size of the cavern instead of your own selfish desires that’s making you touch him. See how mature you’re being, not even touching Aizawa, even though he’s right next to you. You’re being rational about the whole thing.

Todoroki stared off, his bright eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, and he parted his lips, wetting them slightly before speaking. “You should move closer to Aoyama,” he said to Bakugou, “Someone’s hurt.”

“The hell d’you mean?” When Todoroki gestured, Bakugou followed his gaze.

The water’s white path through the dust congealed and blushed deep vermillion as it coursed down the column, falling in thick, steady plops next to Bakugou, the upsplash ticking his exposed skin with red.

“Holy shit.” Bakugou scrambled away the best he could, kicking away from the water and practically into your lap, but he shot you a sort-of apologetic look and shuffled into more of Todoroki’s personal space. “Do you think—it’s not blood,” he said, smearing it on his arm, still running a dark red even spread thinly.

Aoyama cringed. “It’s not going to—it won’t fill up the—”

“No,” Bakugou said quickly, “It’s drainin’ through the cracks. We’re fine, Aoyama.” Bakugou made a point of dragging his hard glare from Todoroki to you, as if to say that keeping Aoyama calm was essential to getting out.

You checked Aizawa’s phone again for any signal, and, sighing, you stowed it to keep from scratching the screen.

“Nothing?”

Shaking your head at Aizawa, you resisted the heavy urge to rest your forehead on his shoulder. You know what? Maybe you could. He’s right there, and if you did it in this situation, it could be read as a simply act of comfort that you could have easily shared with anyone, perhaps. The two of you could stare romantically into the dripping, red goop, talk about your lives together, about teaching your psychotic friends, about sidekicking at Sakura Grove—

“Hey, don’t touch that,” you said, jolting in your seat, to Todoroki, who stopped, wide-eyed, in his odd stretch over Bakugou’s lap before he could prod with his outstretched finger the congealed mass accumulating in the puddle, “I think I know what that is.”

Beside you, Aizawa sucked in through his teeth. “Just once, I wish your deduction skills weren’t so good.”

Without averting your gaze, you moved to elbow him in the chest, hard, but he caught your arm and held it deathly still: he only touched you by your sleeve, though, so no soulmark would bleed through. Odds were that the mark was still furtively hidden behind your ear. Frowning, you tried to wrest your arm away from him, eyes on the falling droplet heavy enough to break the surface tension of the gathered, congealed mass, making the whole thing burst upwards in a dense, ruby smoke.

“Get down, as close to the ground as you can,” you said in a rush, cut off when Aizawa shoved your head to the ground with his hand on the back of your neck, his face inches from yours and only moving closer as he made room for the others to join you, cheek smushed against a patch of intact bathroom tile.

“It’s aerosolising,” said Aizawa, eyes darting over the ceiling, where the mist was rising through cracks in the rubble, “Follow where it’s escaping; we might be able to use—”

“No, you fucker,” you hissed (Aizawa squeezed the back of your neck), “Not all of it’s going to escape. It’s going to condense into liquid again on any surface that blocks it and then drop back on us.”

“Someone tell me what the hell is going on,” spat Bakugou, voice muffled from behind you but strangely reverberating back through the curved metal of Aoyama’s armour.

“We’re only going to be safe on the ground if it doesn’t condense, which is un-fucking-likely the way the thunderstorm’s moistened and lowered atmospheric pressure,” you said, the sound of water rinsing through crannies in the rocks growing from the far side of the cavern, “Aoyama, try to breath evenly but shallowly; you don’t wanna inhale this.”

The knuckles of Bakugou’s heavy glove struck the centre of your upper back. “Dumbass. Just tell him to hyperventilate, why don’t you?”

A drop of red water fell onto Todoroki’s pale cheek, sizzling with the impact as it was absorbed into his skin, a miniature puff of smoke emitting from the spot.

After a moment of heavy silence, Aizawa shifted his jaw, his eyes dark as they focused on you. “Academic protocols are over. Time to share what you know about Serendipity’s quirk.”

You dropped your jaw, even with the grit digging into your skin and jaw. “Who’s the insane person who assigned a bunch of students to escort fucking Serendipity—”

“I am,” said Aizawa, grip on your neck tightening and eyes flaring scarlet so briefly that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been inches away, “Considering your high level of academic success, I thought you capable enough to complete a more difficult mission than your—”

“Someone just fuckin’ say what her quirk does!” Bakugou’s hand curled into a fist with the fabric of your hero costume taut between its fingers, his fist lay, overheated, between your shoulder blades.

You jerked your shoulder away from him, but there wasn’t any room to go, so his hand stayed on your back, putting distance between the two of you, though his knees and hips still touched the back of yours. “Okay,” you said after settling, glaring directly into Aizawa’s eyes, “Serendipity is the third most dangerous villain in the western hemisphere, evidently being transferred today to the place Midnight and I work, because fucking no one else wants to handle her. C’mon, Aizawa, is that why I wasn’t allowed at work for the past week? So I wouldn’t know? Fucking—” You tried to give a half-hearted kick to Aizawa, but his thumb curled enough around your neck to locate your pulse point, which he pressed down on in warning. “But yeah, her quirk is so volatile and dangerous because—because yes, it’s a sex pollen quirk, but it’s fast, and you can’t solve it by touching yourself, like other sex quirks we’ve seen used for villainy; you have to orgasm at someone else’s hands. And no one can figure out why your internal organs shrivel and die within four hours—”

You inhaled sharply through your teeth as two droplets sizzled into your skin in quick succession, but the squeeze on your neck told you to continue. “Or the brain damage, or—because her quirk’s been studied, but no one can tell if it requires the feed of dopamine to the body, or not getting enough oxygenated blood cells, or capillary damage, or—” Bakugou thumped your back again. “—but no one is immune to it, and it’s fucking terrifying,” you finished, scrunching your eyes shut at the sensation of more droplets searing into your skin and into those around you, each person inhaling more with each individual puff of smoke from the viscous drops.

Tongue too big for your mouth, you trailed off, eyesight blurring as you zoned out for a just a bit, but you lurched back into reality when a hot ache stung the back of your neck and swept through your body. Aizawa retracted his hand faster than a viper striking, his eyes briefly holding the same dread yours did.

Shaken, you pushed yourself up to sit, and to your horror, an enormous gush of arousal pooled between your legs—you snapped your legs shut at the sight of the wet spot on your hero costume (and worse, the dribbling into the gravel), and Aizawa saw, holding a steady, neutral expression despite your visible panic.

“Fuck, baby—”

It hadn’t come from Aizawa but Bakugou, whose hips you’d inadvertently ground against when you sat up. His large hand came to grip your waist, fingers digging in and pulling your ass back against him, and his other hand clamped over his nose and mouth as he pushed himself up. “I’ve always known you smelled good, but this is somethin’ else—”

“Absolutely not.” Aizawa yoinked you away from Bakugou and put himself between the you and the rest, cramping you into the corner with pointed rocks digging into your back, and he held up his hand, Bakugou glaring a hole into his palm, vermillion streaking down his face. “You’re drugged. She’s drugged. Even if you both say you want it, it’s not a reflection of reality.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, but Todoroki tilted to the side to keep his tense gaze on you.

“No,” said Aizawa, using the scant room and the end of his capture weapon to snap in Todoroki’s face, “You’d be ruining the professional relationship you have. You’d be violating her. There’s no way she’d actually want you.”

Bakugou scoffed over Todoroki’s quiet how do you know that, already palming himself through his costume. “I’d rather risk it all blasting out of here than suck Icy-Hot’s dick.” His other hand crackled with the beginnings of an explosion.

“You can’t,” you said with effort, mouth and throat coated with dust as heat rose to your skin, sweat breaking out at your hairline, “If you’re not a heteromorph, Serendipity’s quirk suppresses yours. It—it overwhelms your entire system—”

“You couldn’t mention that before I got hard?” Bakugou scowled, thumb playing with his belt buckle in consideration. “I would’ve blasted us out of here earlier.”

Aizawa shook his head. “It wouldn’t’ve worked—”

Todoroki made a sort of horting noise in the back of his throat, drawing everyone’s attention, before hacking a thick glob of red mucus right onto a spot of white bathroom tile, large trails of saliva trailing from his mouth.

“Holy shit,” you said softly, your eyebrows shooting up, and Aizawa held you back before you could even move.

“Mon Dieu,” said Aoyama, and he removed his sparkle shades to see it without a red filter.

Aizawa’s radio crackled static again, but nobody moved a muscle.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” said Aizawa, his hand still up but hardly deterring an increasingly twitchy Bakugou, who kept staring at you over Aizawa’s shoulder, “Aoyama, you’re probably going to hurt yourself and others if you stay in your armour. If you think you can handle being more vulnerable, take it off. Prop it up between the three of you and us.” The radio hissed again. “We’re going to camp out here until help arrives. Waiting is the heroic path to take sometimes,” he said in Bakugou’s direction, “If you find yourself succumbing to the quirk, that’s okay. It’s not shameful. No one is immune to it. If you can work it out among yourselves, that’s fine. No one here is going to share any details you don’t want out.” But here his voice darkened, and though you couldn’t see his face, you knew Aizawa was shooting a hard, unmerciful look towards them. “But you’re not going to hurt anyone here, and you’re especially not going to take advantage of her because she’s the only woman. To get her, you’ll have to go through me, and I do not intend to be kind.”

“Fucking hell,” said Bakugou, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off.

You were feeling a similar way, but Aizawa had you so backed into the corner that there wasn’t room to take anything off. So, instead of tearing off the increasingly abrasive and scratchy fabric of your hero uniform, you hugged your knees to your chest, thighs clenching, and bit down on your arm to keep from crying out. A choked sound still escaped you as a leather strap on your upper thigh rubbed closer to a more sensitive spot.

You couldn’t even lift a hand to fan your face—but with how heavy your limbs felt, even the promise of cool air couldn’t bring you to attempt it, and instead, you tried to find relief in the cold press of busted bathroom tile at the back of your neck—and you turned your head to feel it against your cheek, too.

Your hips rocked, knocking your legs against Aizawa’s back, and when he turned over his shoulder to spare you a glance, you jolted as far back as you could away from him. Not that you could go anyway but barely half an inch backwards. “Sorry,” you said quickly, shaking your head, “Didn’t mean to. Really. I—” Your heart flipped at his concerned face (himself looking a little red), and a sharp cramp curdled into your lower stomach. “Oh, fuck,” you said, a hand shooting to your stomach and doubling over—but your forehead grazed him before you could, and you let out a quiet yelp before jerking back into place, tears welling at the pain. “Sorry about that.”

Aizawa grimaced at your weak smile and turned back towards the others. You hadn’t even heard what they’re doing, since the blood pumping in your ears apparently deafened you to anything besides your own half-smothered sobs into your arm.

They were growing louder at their frustration, but they were, for the most part, not directing any of it at you. Hey, is—? Over Aoyama’s armour-wall, it looked like Bakugou might have gotten his cock out to start stroking it; maybe you could get a better look—

“Hey,” said Aizawa, blocking your view when he turned over his shoulder, “Stop all that squirming.” Were you? You hadn’t even noticed. “Remember what I’ve taught you. I know you can do better.”

“Oh, don’t say professor-y things like that,” you said with a whine while, yes, squirming in place, “It goes straight to my cunt.”

Aizawa closed his eyes for a moment, but he soon opened them and continued, unaffected. “Focus. I’m holding you to a higher calibre than your peers, because I know you can do it. What have you been taught about remaining calm in crisis? Ground yourself.”

“But I—”

“Do it.”

You huffed and tried to settle down into your body, counted, and exhaled slowly as you shut your eyes, waiting for your other sense to sharpen. Body scan—focusing on flowing energy, starting at your head, down to your toes, and back up again. But you had trouble on the return to the top of your head, since every cell in your body screamed to zoom in on the throbbing in your lower half—hard to say what’s tremoring more: you, or the walls of the cavern.

But there’s an infinitesimal sound that drowns every other maddening, oversensitive sensation: from the back of Aizawa’s throat comes a quiet, breathy whimper.

And—

“Oh, my fucking God,” you said, noticing all of the surreptitious ways Aizawa was trying to hide how affected he was: his hand clasped in a knuckle-whitening fist covering his lap, eyes watering with frustration, jaw tensed, neck and hand veins pulsating, sweating through his undershirt, and you?

Wetting your lips, you strained forward to brush his hair aside to kiss the back of his neck, and Aizawa fucking shuddered, the thing passing through his whole body. Though it hadn’t been your intention, your legs spread as you did so, parting on either side of him, and his hair flew into your face as he took in your legs surrounding him.

“Hey, no,” he said, and he pushed back on your legs, willing you to scrunch up to hug them to your chest again.

“I’m not doing anything—”

“You fucking are,” Aizawa hissed over his shoulder, “You’re being a goddamn brat.”

That shut you up immediately. Feeling slick drip out of you, you curled in on yourself, tucking your legs up to your chest like he wanted.

“That’s what I thought.” He turned back to keep guard.

His shoulders seemed wider than before.

Maybe it’s the heady, prickling excitement swarming in your chest at the unspoken threat of a punishment turned sexual, or maybe it’s the incoming brain damage, but you rounded up every nerve not currently on fire to keep pushing your luck. “Aizawa,” you said, soft enough for only him to hear over the squelching from the far side of the cavern, “If we were alone right now, what would you do to me?”

He didn’t respond.

An easy grin stretched across your face.

“Because I know there’s got to be stuff you wanna do to me, not with me, for how I behave sometimes. But I only want your attention,” you said, feeling a bit dizzy as heat flushed all over your feverish skin, “I know you can’t give it to me, because you wanna be all noble and stuff, but—”

Another cramp had you gasping and hacking up red-tinged spit. Aizawa started to turn his head, but you told him, totally deflated, “Don’t bother. I’m sorry—” You coughed up more red mucus. “I know I’m gross; I know you can’t look at me that way; I’m sorry I’ve been—I’m sorry.”

How can he be so calm? It’s not fucking fair that he can just sit there, cross-legged and sweating, with the scent of sex permeating the smoke-hazy air, and yes, he’s hard, but that’s just the stupid fucking quirk.

You’re dripping and clenching but still so, so empty, and the tears finally overflowed as Aizawa looked over his shoulder at you again. “I’m sorry,” you said again, eyes glazing over and breathing irregularly (for all the talk about Aoyama hyperventilating, you might be the one to actually do it). “I’ll—I’ll stop bothering you; I can handle this. I’ll, uh—” You cut yourself off at another cramp, seizing up at a stray spasm, releasing your hold on your legs and yanking at the roots of your hair. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll get—get Shinsou to make me come—sorry I tried to—I’m sorry; I should’ve left you alone—”

“Stop apologising.” Aizawa twisted to brush away your tears with his thumb, the skin that vibrant pink when he pulled away. “Christ, you’re burning up.” He hand returned to your face, this time against your forehead, and he frowned—yeah, he was frowning before you were pathetically raising yourself off the ground to nuzzle into his hand, to mouth voraciously at his palm, which flushed pink with every pass of your lips, and—

“Fuck,” said Aizawa, withdrawing his hand to press the heels of his palms into his eyes. You made a questioning noise, and to answer, he let his gaze drop to where the soaked patch between your legs dribbled into the rubble. He dragged his hands down the rest of his face. “You’re drenched,” he said, rasping.

A vehement moan from the other side of the space made both of you flinch, with Aizawa making a quick check to ensure their attention wasn’t on you.

You grabbed his capture weapon, pulling him close. “Please,” you said, panting, “Please, ‘Zawa, I’m not as capable as you think I am; I’m not good; I can’t take it. Please—”

His teeth dug into his lower lip as a grumbled scoff came from the back of this throat, and he shook his head. “God, not like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

Another loud moan and the sounds of skin on skin from the others brought another wince from the two of you, and Aizawa squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he’d steeled himself, determined and set. “I can’t have you corrupting my protégé,” he said (it was a joke, right? Why isn’t he smiling?), “but I can’t offer you anything more.”

“Wha—?”

Aizawa was nudging your knees open, his eyebrows raised, and when he turned to face the others, he scooted backwards to sit between your spread legs, pinning you between the rock and his back, crowding you in, and oh, oh, my God, you should’ve been embarrassed at how wet the back of his jumpsuit got as he pushed himself back to sit right in front of your crotch, but the first, pulsing wave of relief as your clit rubbed against him washed everything else away.

Did this count? Did this count as coming at someone else’s hands? You found the problem less compelling the more you thrashed against him, grinding your clit against his back so hard that your vision blacked out at the edges, breathing in that terribly awful frustrating sexy combination of pine and sandalwood, desperately huffing it in in gasping breaths and curling your fingers into the back of his jumpsuit to bring him closer: you needed to kiss the back of his neck again, to see that pink mark on his skin.

But it’s as if he knew what you were going to do, because instead of letting you pull his hair aside, he reached back to grab your hand, and he (mercifully) allowed the grab to relax into a hold, letting you lace your fingers through his as he guided your arm around his waist (an evil part of you was disappointed that he didn’t place your hand over his cock, instead of resting your entwined hands on his leg [cute]).

And you were quiet: you didn’t moan, so the others wouldn’t know, unless they could somehow make out your laboured breathing behind the hand you cupped over your mouth. You’re grappling for pressure against your clit, but it’s your shiver when he stroked the back of your hand with his thumb that triggered your orgasm—pounding, rushing, and all at once, the throbbing of your clit taking you somewhere distant and piney, with you slowly coming back to reality by an abrupt pulsing, for some reason, in the roof of your mouth.

And the quirk had passed through you.

It counted.

But it kept you bound in a tired haze, sultry and lethargic and red, and lost in the lingering high of both the scarlet saliva you kept hacking up and that Aizawa let you grind against him until you came, you closed in on yourself and did your best to stay awake. Your brain tried to worry about Aizawa, but the quirk shushed you and forced you into a cloudy exhaustion.

You were out of it when Aizawa’s radio crackled to life, when the rescue unit exhumed your team, when the EMT on duty looked you over. You were still foggy when you were put in a passenger seat of a government vehicle, but the fog dissipated when Aizawa climbed in the driver’s seat and told you to call Midnight.

“I don’t know the number for Sakura Grove,” he said, turning on the windshield wipers, “and I need to warn Midnight that I’m asking her to help me with this quirk.”

Thunder rumbled through the sky and into your bones as he turned into downtown traffic, headlights blurring in the rain. Blankly, you wrestled his phone out of your pocket and began to dial her work number. “Okay, traitor.”

Aizawa’s expression darkened, his face glistening with sweat. “You know that I can’t—”

“So I can’t do the same for you?” you asked, putting his phone on speaker and letting it ring (cranking up the volume to hear it over the rain pelting the windows), “I can’t just, like, hold out my hand for you to grind against, or, God forbid, give you an actual fucking handjob—”

“Stop it,” he said, and he snatched his phone from you, switching off speaker, and you crossed your arms to fume, staring out into the miserably grey morning.

You smushed your forehead against the cool of the window, watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass, and you tried to focus on car horns blaring instead of the conversation regarding Aizawa’s sexual release that he and Midnight were currently having.

When he hung up, you sat up from your slouch against the window. “Is that all you need me for, then? You’ve got the number. You might as well drop me off at the next light.”

Aizawa swore under his breath. “Stop being such a—” He cut himself off, his leg not working the pedals bouncing profusely. “I still need you to enter Sakura Grove.”

That was true. You had three number-codes to punch in for clearance, and there was a thumbprint scan at the building in which you and Midnight worked. Still, you scoffed. “Just get Nemuri to let you in. You evidently don’t need me.”

The hand on the steering wheel tensed, veins pulsing. “First name basis?”

“Some professors like me.”

“Forget I said anything,” he grumbled, and when you turned to the window again, he mashed on the car radio, volume loud over the rain.

After a babble of a drum solo and what sounded like shouting in English, you were able to translate the song in your head by the time it hit the chorus:

“Got it bad, so bad, I’m hot for teacher.”

Aizawa stared, baffled, at the radio instead of the road as the guitar picked up, and he changed stations.

Again, in English, but with a hypnotically alt-relaxed beat: “Can’t tell my friends, ‘cause they will laugh; I love a member of the staff.”

You sneaked a glance at the driver’s seat, where Aizawa was fighting traffic, his erection, and his incredulity at what he was hearing.

“I fight my way to the front of class to get the best view of her—”

Aizawa changed stations before the singer could finish the couplet, and he sank into his seat at the safe sounds of synth and guitar, but you sat up straight, eyes wide and biting back a laugh, because you knew what the fuck was coming:

“Don’t stand—don’t stand so, don’t stand so close to me—”

Aizawa smashed the radio’s off button, seething. He ran his fingers back through his hair, and after a deep breath, he opened his mouth. “What’d you do,” he asked flatly.

“Me?” you said, pointing at yourself, doing your fucking best not to smile, “What makes you think I’ve done something?”

Aizawa was panting. Chest heaving. Sweat visibly dripping down his face. Free hand darting between a superfluous position on the wheel, resting on the car door, and bunching up his jumpsuit to hide his erection, which only drew attention to it. “You didn’t—you and Nemuri didn’t orchestrate all this, did you?” he asked, teeming with nervous energy, “It’s a little—it’s a little too perfect for you, to get to see me dishevelled and desperate, to nearly get me to cave into what you want.”

Several feelings flooded you at once: revulsion at the suggestion you made a criminal use her quirk on you, anger that he’d even consider it to be in your character when he’s known you for years (and more anger that he thought you would want to lose your virginity with three other guys in the room), a wretched, clawing desperation to prove him wrong and beg for forgiveness—and a creeping disgust and shame towards yourself, for having been so vulnerable in his presence when he didn’t want it or you.

Time to shut down. “C’mon, Aizawa. That’s not very logical in the grand scheme of things,” you said, scathingly using his favourite word, propping your chin on your fist, and leaning against the window again, “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t let it end with my fucking soulmate going to someone else to make him come, especially when I was similarly helpless.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you—”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” you said bitterly, “but I wouldn’t do that. To you or to me. I don’t do things that would humiliate or hurt you.” You scooted closer towards the car window, away from him and his stupid pine aftershave. “I guess I’m a brat, yeah, but I’m not mean.”

To have something to do instead of talk to him, you exhumed the car manual from the glove compartment and started to read it, and you read that dull fucking piece of crap until you were forced to punch in your clearance codes for Sakura Grove.

As soon as he was inside the main building and out of sight, you slammed the manual and the glove compartment shut, and you screamed. No one would’ve heard you over the thunderstorm, anyway. Comforting that the weather was as angry as you.

You unbuckled and cosied up in your seat, glaring at the curtain of mist blowing rain horizontal outside. Lightning illuminated a worker rushing from one building to another, and she had to double back to get her ballet flat, hopping slightly to put it back on.

You don’t have another work shift until Monday, but you kind of wanted to clock in, anyway. It’d be satisfying to bitch about the whole thing with Ito. She’d tear into Aizawa. He deserves it.

Slunking down into your seat, you were struck with new terror: what if Aizawa were right? What if you did, inadvertently, plan this out, by inhaling Ito’s quirk dust a second time? Sex pollen was…sex pollen was a trope. A pretty fucking common one.

Oh, my God.

You clamped a hand over your mouth and tried to work out the logistics. Serendipity was already scheduled to arrive in Japan regardless of you inhaling the dust again, and—fuck fuck fuck. You didn’t like this.

You swallowed thickly, turning it all over in your head, and as the variables overlapped and blurred in your mind, you started to cry.

“Goddammit,” you said aloud, sitting up and dabbing at your face with your sleeve. You’ve already cried a lot today, and it’s not even noon. You’re taking a nap when you get back to campus.

You know who else likes naps?

You fucking sobbed harder, even though you were laughing a bit, too. You decided that you were too worn out to make any sound judgments. Go to sleep once you get back, and think about it when you wake up.

You sniffed and looked towards the door to the main building. God, he’s taking a long time. You’d figure that he’d edged himself to oblivion and back during the car ride, but no—

The next instant, you tensed up, frazzled, because a half-dressed Aizawa’s straddling you, hips jerking, driving into your own and biting into his fist as he came on your shirt, cum spurting all the way up to your boobs.

The groan he released once the spill of his cum slowed to a slight dribble nearly wrecked your ears and stopped your breath. You’re hastily, desperately drinking up details, eyes flicking over them rapidly in case they’re snatched away before you could notice: the weeping, pink tip of his cock, the only part of his dick peeking out of his jumpsuit’s lower half—the trail of dark hair leading up to it from his naval, framed by an infuriating v on his lithely muscled abdomen—all of his exposed, corded muscles of his chest, tendons visibly stretching and contracting in his forearms—and when he wiped that final drop of cum off his cock, it was with the thumb stained with soulmark pink.

Of course, for how much relaxation coursed through his body, it all fled him the second he finally opened his eyes.

You expected that he’d scramble to cover himself up and off of you, but once that initial panic faded, all he was left with was resignation. He yanked up the elastic of his boxer-briefs to hide his cock, and, sighing, he said, “Please. Please don’t say anything. I can’t handle it right now.”

You nodded. His eyes travelled over your face, his expression cracking. “You’re crying,” he said, voice breaking.

“Not because of you,” you said, wiping at your tears, “It’s something I did.”

He wiped away the tear stains on your other cheek. “Let’s find something to clean you up.”

While he twisted to fossick through the console for tissues, you swiped two fingers through the stuff on your shirt. So, this was a man’s cum. Weird. Thick. (You’ve seen some before; you’re not an idiot, but this was your first time, uh, experiencing it. Honestly, it reminded you a bit of the congealed quirk stuff earlier.) You rubbed it between your fingers.

“Oh, what are you doing—no, stop that,” said Aizawa softly, swatting your hand away from your cum-stained shirt. When you eyed the bit on your fingers, Aizawa sighed again. “Don’t taste it.”

He took your hand and wiped it clean, pink ink seeping across skin with every brief touch. He gave you a tissue from the pack he found for your tears, and he used the rest to wipe off your shirt.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anything else for you to wear,” he said, checking the backseat.

“It’s okay,” you said, balling up the tissues and putting them in the centre console, “We’re going straight back to campus. I’ll just shower and go to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Aizawa, and he lifted himself from your lap and moved to cross to the driver’s seat.

You grabbed his arm to stop him. “You should, too. Don’t run yourself dry.”

Aizawa froze, considering, and then he nodded, slowly sinking back onto your lap.

He braced his hands on his thighs. “I’ve been cruel to you.”

Too exhausted to argue, you shrugged. “You have your reasons.”

“I shouldn’t be so cold to you, though. It’s been wearing away at my conscience,” he said, patting his pockets on his thighs and moving down to his calves. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he said, “Give me your phone. You deserve my number, at least.”

You pulled yours out and opened a new contact before handing it over. “You’re sure you’re comfortable with that?”

“Yeah,” said Aizawa, tapping the screen, “So long as it doesn’t…lead to anything out of bounds. And…maybe you can stick around for a while next time you shift in your sleep.” He shot you a smirk as he returned your phone.

The contact name simply read Shouta. No surname or honorifics. Just Shouta.

Heat rose to your face, but it was much pleasanter than when it had earlier that day.

“Are you good to drive back to campus?”

Tilting your head, you pocketed your phone again. “Yeah, I’m up for it.”

“Good,” he said, climbing off of your lap and into the backseat, “I’m going the fuck to sleep.”

soulmate trope taglist: @bakugouspsycho, @pansexualproblemchild, @doonaandpjs, @sunsetevergreen, @the-coffee-is-on-fire, @liberace2, @ladymidnight77, @nonomesupposedto, @gooooomz, @kissmebakugou, @pachiibatt, @celestair

#bnha #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #aizawa/reader #aizawa imagine #aizawa fic #mha #aizawa headcanons #aizawa fanfiction #aizawa fanfic #aizawa shouta x reader #soulmates #soulmate #soulmate au #dash it all

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shadowqueenjude · 8 months ago

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Many people have a headcanon that the stranger who appeared at the Archerons’ door asking Papa Archeron to invest was Lucien, so I decided to write the scene! This is the first coherent thing I’ve written in ages so don’t judge me too hard😭 Also I have no idea what currency is used in acotarland so I’m using pounds because it’s based on Britain.

Lucien had not even seen a human house yet and he already felt like an outsider. He was no stranger to the feeling; it was how he’d felt when he’d first shown up in Spring, covered in his brothers’ blood, steam curling off his body from the fire in his veins, his ember smell and red hair both clear signs that he didn’t belong. However, at least, while his magic had felt weaker outside of his home territory, it had still felt potent. Even with Amarantha’s stupid curse. But here… By the Cauldron, this place was so dreary. So ordinary. If this was where Feyre had grown up, no wonder she was such an ignorant mortal fool. Her human life was so mundane compared to his. Lucien couldn’t imagine living here his whole life like this.

Tamlin had offered to send an entire entourage to protect him, but Lucien had insisted that just a horse would do. He needed to look wealthy, not like a prince. He wasn’t going to be slain by two girls and their absentee father. Andras had only been killed because he had willed it. Lucien shut down that thought, not wanting to think about the pain he’d felt when Andras had died. His closest friend in Spring, most likely. Tamlin was his friend too, but he was also his High Lord; the relationship was inherently unequal, unlike with Andras.

At last, Lucien exited the forest. The clearing was even more boring than the trees. The ground was a yellowish-green reminiscent of dying grass, and every step was a loud crunch under the horse’s hooves. Pahhh. No wonder Feyre was half-dead when she’d first arrived. Then Lucien felt guilty for thinking that way. It wasn’t her fault the humans were left like this. Prythian before Amarantha had ample resources to help out the humans, but they hadn’t. They’d freed them from slavery to the Fae, only to make them slaves to their basest instincts.

They were even worse off than the lesser faeries. Lucien’s eyes stung as he remembered Jesminda’s dream of an equal Prythian, the dream Tamlin was working hard towards. She would’ve loved Tamlin and the Spring Court.

Calm down Lucien, he chastised himself as he urged the horse onward. Holy shit, Tamlin hadn’t exaggerated; these homes and buildings were tiny. He moved through bustling streets with little humans pushing carts full of wares of some kind. Several stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Excellent; he set himself apart plenty simply being astride this mare.

As Tamlin had said, the Archeron home wasn’t hard to find. Mostly because of the lingering faerie scents that he followed all the way to their house. He didn’t remember human etiquette as it had been ages since he’d met one, but it couldn’t be that different from Faerie etiquette, right? Right?? Cauldron boil him, he should’ve done more research, but he didn’t think it would be that big a deal. Tamlin’s glamour magic that he’d cast as he kidnapped Feyre should hold, plus Lucien’s own glamour magic.

He didn’t have anything to tie his horse to, so he gently descended the horse and led her near the side of the house, praying that she wouldn’t run. Then he knocked on the door, internally cussing at this infernal hat he was wearing. Some gentlemanly human fashion that he despised.

The door opened a minute later. Lucien looked down at a small woman who looked a lot like Feyre- only, her features were sharper, stronger. Her dirty blonde hair was up in a braided crown, her angled brows were arched as her silvery-blue eyes assessed him with a courtier’s precision. Lucien instantly recognized this one as Nesta- the older sister. Cold, cunning, and more beautiful than Lucien had expected. He gave her a practiced courtier’s smile as he bowed to her. “Hello, Lady. I was wondering if your father was home?” Nesta stared at him suspiciously, eyes narrowed. “What could you possibly want with him?” Another feminine voice in the background gasped, but Lucien maintained his smile, only replying, “He is a merchant, is he not, Lady? I have a proposition for him.”

“Our father hasn’t been a merchant in many years,” Nesta said coldly. Oh, she was a viper, alright. She’d fit right in at the Autumn Court. Unfortunately for her, Lucien had far too much experience with people worse than her. “Perhaps what I suggest will convince him to get back into it.”

Nesta looked him up and down again. Somehow, Lucien got the feeling that she could see through the glamour. Impressive. Lucien’s smile morphed into a smirk as Nesta continued to stare her displeasure. “See something you like, my lady?” Nesta’s eyes instantly snapped back to his. “How dare- oh just come in; let’s get this over with quickly.”

Lucien bowed again, and unable to help himself, he sent a wink and grin Nesta’s way before he turned towards the man sitting on the chair. Lucien repressed his wince of sympathy at the ruined leg. That must have hurt a lot when he got it. He didn’t know the story, but it made Lucien’s face twinge in memory of his own eye getting carved out. “Does that hurt?” Lucien asked the man, nodding at the leg. The man blinked, as though surprised to be addressed. “Often,” he admitted. “Particularly when I try to stand up.” Unable to help himself, Lucien blurted, “I could give you supplies to help you with that, you know, Lord.”

The man cringed. “Please just call me Tristan. And I couldn’t possibly accept-“

“Please, Tristan. I insist. It’s just in my satchel here. Give me one moment.” He bowed to him and turned around, the scent of jasmine wafting into his nose. That’s when he saw her.

The younger sister: Elain. She had the same burnished gold hair of her sisters, but her eyes were wholly different; she had lovely doe eyes that you could drown in. She had a slight blush on her face, and she had an inviting smile on her face as she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Won’t you tell us your name, my lord?” Lucien had fully intended on giving them an alias, but he fumbled on his words, instead saying, “I-my name is Lucien.”

“Lucien.” His name on her tongue-

“Pretty name for a pretty lord,” Elain teased, and Lucien felt his face heat up. His shirt sleeve sparked with fire, and Lucien hastily patted it down. Why was he so nervous? Elain wasn’t the first beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Why, um, thank you, Lady Elain.”

“How do you know her name?” Nesta cut in, and Lucien sighed. She was even worse than Feyre. He turned to her, letting that practiced smile return. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t know about the family of the man who I’m trusting with my money, did you?” Lucien tried not to laugh at the expression on Nesta’s face as he sauntered out of the cabin to get the faerie pain killer and tonic. He made a mental note to get new ones once he went back home. This man needed it more than him, and he could just get more when he went home.

Thankfully, his horse was obediently standing near the side of the house, and Lucien rustled through his satchel, getting the two bottles he always kept on him. Then he strolled back towards the front door, knocking politely again. This time, the door was opened by Elain, who gave him that adorable smile again. “Lord Lucien.” Lucien gave her a real grin, replying, “Lady Elain.” “Please don’t worry about my sister. She can be a little…overprotective, but she means well, I promise.” Lucien lifted a hand to place on Elain’s shoulder assuredly before he remembered that humans were really weird about physical contact.

“Rest assured, I understand your sister’s misgivings. I’m a strange man entering your home, and I know of the struggles ladies must go through in this world. I do not resent her for her attitude.” Elain beamed. “Does that mean you’ll visit us again?” While Lucien had been careful to avoid physical contact, it seemed Elain had no such qualms; she grabbed his forearm with her small, surprisingly strong hands. Lucien stiffened slightly in surprise. He was going to say no when he caught a glimpse of her expression and scented her mood. Her excitement was so contagious. “You seem a worldly man. Have you traveled much?” Lucien blinked. “Yes, I have.” He opened his mouth to say more, but his mind was blank. Cauldron boil him-

“Excellent! Then it’s settled then; you’re coming back so you can tell me all about your travels,” Elain said firmly. Lucien blushed again. Think of something intelligent to say! “As you say, my lady,” Lucien finally managed. Then the two of them walked back to her father, Elain’s hand still on his arm. Lucien felt Nesta’s glaring at it, but he didn’t care; he was glowing at her hand on him, and he was too giddy to wonder why. “Here it is, Tristan. When you feel pain, take two sips of this red liquid and your pain shall go away. Rub this purple liquid into your leg every day to help relieve the bones in that area. I shall leave them on this table.” Lucien placed them on the wooden table where he noticed Tamlin’s claw marks punched into the table. By the Cauldron, Tam. You went all the way with the theatrics, didn’t you?

“Now, for my request: I know of your reputation, so I am asking you to invest some of my money for me.”

Tristan inquired, “And how much do you wish me to invest, Lord Lucien?” “Twenty thousand pounds.” Elain gasped and Nesta moved to cover her younger sister’s mouth. Tristan stared at him in disbelief. “Twenty thousand? Really?”

“Of course. Will that be a problem?”

“Well…it’s just so much money…”

Lucien resisted the urge to snarl at him. His patience was waning. “No, it’s nothing to me. Just a small sum to see what you can do. I’ll think of investing more if I am interested.” Tristan stared at him some more. “That sounds like a wonderful idea!” Elain exclaimed, walking forward as her sister tried to shush her again. “My father would be delighted to accept your investment, my lord.” Lucien sighed slightly in relief as Elain met his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouthed at her. She merely winked at him, and Lucien blushed again. Something was wrong with him; must be the human weather.

“Erm, yes, of course I would,” Tristan said with slight confusion. “Father-“ Nesta began, but Lucien spoke over her. “Splendid! I could not be more grateful.” Lucien reached his hand into midair, searching for that small bag of gold Tamlin had given him and stored in the ether. At last, he found it, handing it to Tristan. “Here’s another token of my gratitude.” Tristan blinked, as if he could not possibly believe his luck, and Lucien handed him another back, this one with the twenty thousand pounds. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Lord Tristan, and meeting your wonderful daughters.” He bowed to each of them in turn before exiting the room.

“Wait!” Elain cried, just as Lucien mounted his horse. Lucien turned to Feyre’s sister. He tried not to get distracted by her big brown eyes as she said breathlessly, “You will come back, won’t you, my lord?” He hadn’t planned on it, no. But he couldn’t bring himself to say that to her. “I swear it, my lady Elain.” She grinned then, her fully smile so brilliant it took Lucien’s breath away. “Until then, my Lord Lucien.”

That expression remained imprinted on Lucien’s mind all the way back to the Spring Court.

#lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #elucien #nesta archeron #papa archeron #elain archeron

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proshippers-against-censorship · 1 month ago

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hope what i’m bringing up here is appropriate for this blog. i could try finding any other outlet, internal or outside resources that would help me get through this, but i’m trying not to ruffle any feathers.

so, since last year i’ve been watching something i used to be into when i was younger and participating in its fandom. through rewatching it i found out that i shipped two characters that i always had a noticeable affinity towards, except i realized i like the pairing way more as an adult because of everything i missed between them since i last saw the show. they were paired with different characters by the end and even if it was shown to make more “sense” for them according to the greater fandom, i initially didn’t care because of how much i enjoyed their dynamic thoughout the show’s duration. i felt that it brought out a bunch of discussion to be told whether you saw it the lens of a romatic or platonic relationship. most of what happened in the show’s main timeline could not go on without their involvement, and their individual development arcs kicked off because of the undeniable romantic relationship they tried to pursue at one point.

the big thing about their relationship that apparently makes it a “proship”/comship is the huge age difference between them, and unfortunately that’s unfortunately all what the fandom sees them for. i feel that even when talking about the romantic/sexual aspect of them together and the implications, they have one of the least discussed dynamics i’ve seen of many of the major characters, which doesn’t make sense because they’re both the male and female mcs. it’s always “thank god they didnt get together, i’m sick at the thought of them with each other” even though thats beyond what their relationship was like as the story was drawing to a close. one tweet i saw which was a quote of one which showed a screenshot of the characters in the ship i’m talking about in a canonical platonic showing was something along the lines of “the four people who still ship this must be on suicide watch” which is just an awful thing to think of about anyone.

i do try to feel good about shipping them publicly despite all thats been brought towards me for it. or, at least the nothingness of it. a lot of blogs i’ve interacted with and been interested about following in the past through tag scrolling have blocked me for shipping it. i know this because i always notice that a couple blogs who mainly post about the fandom aren’t on my dash. it’s weird, i don’t even like it as a “standard” underage ship. i’m not saying they’re wrong for keeping themselves safe from things they don’t like, it just glooms me out because i still want to interact with much of the fandom, even if we don’t agree on stuff. i’m too old to be spiralling over these things and activating the sanctification in me i’m trying hard to undo to enjoy my hobbies. why does it even matter to me this much that people block me because they don’t like shit i create or post

with this i feel like anti culture absolutely neuters any kind of intellectual discussion about characters who were in a “problematic” relationship and gone out of it to be part of a standard platonic one. i don’t how unique it is for this ship, but i do imagine that people look into the bad things about it far too much. and hey, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure

(i’m being vague to protect myself from antis who might find me out and send me dumb shit, forgive me)

No, no, you're very right. The rise of anti culture has definitely led to a decrease in having decent, intellectual conversations about pairings in media and how the relationships between characters shift in ways that display incredibly important aspects of their stories.

But that ties back to the loss of media literacy, I fear.

#proshippers against censorship #jackal barks #proship please interact #proshippers please interact #proship positivity #proship #proshipper safe #proshipping #proshipper #anti anti #ask #asks #pro stance

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auntie-histamine · 24 days ago

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My therapist just sent me this article, and I think it should be required reading for everyone who's feeling scared this morning. Tumblr won't let me put the whole article under a readmore, so I've included a shorter, edited version below. I highly encourage everyone read the full article, especially as I couldn't include everything here that I wanted to.

Please be aware that I will not be interacting with comments and/or reblogs, unless it is to help with directing to resources mentioned in the article. I am grieving too, like many of us, and I don't have the spoons to facilitate anything more. Read, share, and get organized.

The below are selections the article "There is hope - 10 ways to be prepared and grounded for another Trump presidency" by Daniel Hunter from Waging Nonviolence.

1. Trust yourself I started writing this list with strategic principles (e.g. analyze your opponents weakness and learn to handle political violence), but actually the place to start is with your own self. Distrust fuels the flame of autocracy because it makes it much easier to divide. We can see that in the casual nature of Trump’s rhetoric — telling people to distrust immigrants, Democrats, socialists, people from Chicago, women marchers, Mexicans, the press and so on. This is a social disease: You know who to trust by who they tell you to distrust. Trust-building starts with your own self. It includes trusting your own eyes and gut, as well as building protection from the ways the crazy-making can become internalized. This also means being trustworthy — not just with information, but with emotions. That way you can acknowledge what you know and admit the parts that are uncertain fears nagging at you. Then take steps to follow through on what you need. If you’re tired, take some rest. If you’re scared, make some peace with your fears. I can point you to resources that support that — like FindingSteadyGround.com — but the value here is to start with trusting your own inner voice. If you need to stop checking your phone compulsively, do it. If you don’t want to read this article now and instead take a good walk, do it.

2. Find others who you trust Hannah Arendt’s “The Origins of Totalitarianism” explored how destructive ideologies like fascism and autocracy grow. She used the word verlassenheit — often translated as loneliness — as a central ingredient. As she meant it, loneliness isn’t a feeling but a kind of social isolation of the mind. Your thinking becomes closed off to the world and a sense of being abandoned to each other. She’s identifying a societal breakdown that we’re all experiencing. Under a Trump presidency, this trend will continue to accelerate. The constant attacks on social systems — teachers, health care and infrastructure — make us turn away from leaning on each other and towards ideologically simple answers that increase isolation (e.g. “distrust government,” “MAGA is nuts,” “anyone who votes that way doesn’t care about you”). If Trump wins: Get some people to regularly touch base with. Use that trust to explore your own thinking and support each other to stay sharp and grounded. I’ve written an agenda for such gatherings right after a Trump win that you can use.

3. Grieve No matter what we try to do, there’s going to be a lot of loss. The human thing to do is grieve. If you aren’t a feelings person, let me say it this way: The inability to grieve is a strategic error. After Donald Trump won in 2016, we all saw colleagues who never grieved. They didn’t look into their feelings and the future — and as a result they remained in shock. An alternative: Start by naming and allowing feelings that come to arise. The night that Donald Trump won, I stayed up until 4 a.m. with a colleague. It was a tear-filled night of naming things that we had just lost. It wasn’t anywhere near strategizing or list-making or planning. It was part of our acceptance that losing a presidency to an awful man means you and your people lose a lot. Ultimately, this helped us believe it — so we didn’t spend years in a daze: “I can’t believe this is happening in this country.” Believe it. Believe it now. Grief is a pathway to that acceptance.

4. Release that which you cannot change Under a Trump presidency, there are going to be so many issues that it will be hard to accept that we cannot do it all. I’m reminded of a colleague in Turkey who told me, “There’s always something bad happening every day. If we had to react to every bad thing, we’d never have time to eat.” Chaos is a friend of the autocrat. One way we can unwittingly assist is by joining in the story that we have to do it all. Unaddressed, this desire to act on everything leads to bad strategy. Nine months ago when we gathered activists to scenario plan together, we took note of two knee-jerk tendencies from the left that ended up largely being dead-ends in the face of Trump: - Public angsting — posting outrage on social media, talking with friends, sharing awful news - Symbolic actions — organizing marches and public statements The first is where we look around at bad things happening and make sure other people know about them, too. We satisfy the social pressure of our friends who want us to show outrage — but the driving moves are only reactive. The end result wasn’t the intended action or an informed population. It’s demoralizing us. It’s hurting our capacity for action. Public angsting as a strategy is akin to pleading with the hole in the boat to stop us from sinking. Symbolic actions may fare little better under a Trump presidency. In whatever version of democracy we had, the logic of rallies and statements of outrage was to build a unified front that showed the opposition many voices were opposed to them. But under an unleashed fascist — if it’s all you do — it’s like begging the suicidal captain to plug the hole. Let me be clear. These strategies will be part of the mix. We’ll need public angsting and symbolic actions. But if you see an organization or group who only relies on these tactics, look elsewhere. There are other, more effective ways to engage.

5. Find your path I’ve been writing scenarios of how a Trump presidency might play out. The initial weeks look chaotic no matter what. But over time some differentiated resistance pathways begin to emerge. One pathway is called “Protecting People.” This might mean organizing outside current systems for health care and mutual aid, or moving resources to communities that are getting targeted. Further examples include starting immigrant welcoming committees, abortion-support funds or training volunteers on safety skills to respond to white nationalist violence. Another pathway is “Defending Civic Institutions.” This group may or may not be conscious that current institutions don’t serve us all, but they are united in understanding that Trump wants them to crumble so he can exert greater control over our lives. Each bureaucracy will put up its own fight to defend itself. Insider groups will play a central battle against Trump fascism. You may recall government scientists dumping copious climate data onto external servers, bracing for Trump’s orders. This time, many more insiders understand it’s code red. Hopefully, many will bravely refuse to quit — and instead choose to stay inside as long as possible. Institutional pillars understand a Trump presidency is a dire threat. Then there’s a critical third pathway: “Disrupt and Disobey.” This goes beyond protesting for better policies and into the territory of people intervening to stop bad policies or showing resistance. Lastly, there’s a key fourth role: “Building Alternatives.” We can’t just be stuck reacting and stopping the bad. We have to have a vision. This is the slow growth work of building alternative ways that are more democratic. Each of us may be attracted to some pathway more than others. Your path may not be clear right now. That’s okay. There will be plenty of opportunities to join the resistance.

6. Do not obey in advance, do not self-censor If autocrats teach us any valuable lesson it’s this: Political space that you don’t use, you lose. I’m not coaching to never self-protect. You can decide when to speak your mind. But it is a phenomenally slippery slope here we have to observe and combat. Put simply: Use the political space and voice you have.

7. Reorient your political map A Trump presidency reshapes alignments and possibilities. The bellicose, blasphemous language of Trump will meet the practical reality of governing. When you’re out of power, it’s easy to unify — but their coalition’s cracks will quickly emerge. We have to stay sharp for opportunities to cleave off support. Even if you don’t want to engage with them (which is fine), we’ll all have to give space to those who do experiment with new language to appeal to others who don’t share our worldview of a multiracial true democracy.

8. Get real about power In Trump’s first term, the left’s organizing had mixed results. It was elections that ultimately stopped Trump. This time will be much harder. The psychological exhaustion and despair is much higher. Deploying people into the streets for mass actions with no clear outcome will grow that frustration, leading to dropout and radicalized action divorced from strategy. Trump has been very clear about using his political power to its fullest — stretching and breaking the norms and laws that get in his way. The movement will constantly be asking itself: “Are you able to stop this new bad thing?” We're not going to convince him not to do these things. No pressure on Republicans will result in more than the tiniest of crumbs (at least initially). It will be helpful to have a power analysis in our minds, specifically that’s known as the upside-down triangle. This tool was built to explain how power moves even under dictatorships. In our country, pressuring elite power is reaching its end point. Power will need to emerge from folks no longer obeying the current unjust system. This tipping point of mass noncooperation will be messy. It means convincing a lot of people to take huge personal risks for a better option. As a “Disrupt and Disobey” person, we have to move deliberately to gain the trust of others, like the “Protecting People” folks. Mass noncooperation does the opposite of their goal of protection — it exposes people to more risk, more repression. But with that comes the possibility that we could get the kind of liberatory government that we all truly deserve.

9. Handle fear, make violence rebound Otpor in Serbia has provided an abundance of examples on how to face repression. They were young people who took a sarcastic response to regular police beatings. They would joke amongst each other, “It doesn’t hurt if you’re afraid.” Their attitude wasn’t cavalier — it was tactical. They were not going to grow fear. So when hundreds were beaten on a single day, their response was: This repression will only stiffen the resistance. Handling fear isn’t about suppressing it — but it is about constantly redirecting. Activist/intellectual Hardy Herriman released a studied response about political violence that had some news that surprised me. The first was that physical political violence hasn’t grown dramatically in this country — it still remains relatively rare. The threats of violence, however, trend upwards, such as this CNN report: “Politically motivated threats to public officials increased 178 percent during Trump’s presidency,” primarily from the right. His conclusion wasn’t that political violence isn’t going to grow. Quite the opposite. But he noted that a key component to political violence is to intimidate and tell a story that they are the true victims. Making political violence rebound requires refusing to be intimidated and resisting those threats so they can backfire. (Training on this backfire technique is available from the HOPE-PV guide.) We can shrink into a cacophony of “that’s not fair,” which fuels the fear of repression. Or we take a page from the great strategist Bayard Rustin. Black civil rights leaders were targeted by the government of Montgomery, Alabama during the bus boycott in the 1950s. Leaders like the newly appointed Martin Luther King Jr. went into hiding after police threats of arrest based on antiquated anti-boycott laws. Movement organizer Rustin organized them to go down to the station and demand to be arrested since they were leaders — making a positive spectacle of the repression. Some leaders not on police lists publicly demanded they, too, get arrested. Folks charged were met with cheers from crowds, holding their arrest papers high in the air. Fear was turned into valor.

10. Envision a positive future We’ve all now imagined storylines about how bad it might get. We would do ourselves a service to spend an equal measure of time envisioning how we might advance our cause in these conditions. As writer Walidah Imarisha says, “The goal of visionary fiction is to change the world.” In my mind if Trump wins, we’ll have to eventually get him out. There are two paths available to force him out. The first: Vote him out. Given the bias of the electoral college, this requires successfully defending nearly all local, state and national takeovers of elections such that they remain relatively fair and free. Winning via the path of electoral majority has a wide swath of experience and support from mainstream progressive organizations and Democratic institutions. It’s going to be a major thrust. In my scenario writing I’ve explored what that strategy could look like, including preparing electoral workers to stand against last minute attempts by Trump to change election rules and even stymie the election with dubious emergency orders. They don’t obey — and go ahead with elections anyway. The second strategy is if he illegally refuses to leave or allow fair elections: Kick him out. That means we are able to develop a national nonviolent resistance campaign capable of forcing him out of office. I’ve written several versions of this: One where large-scale strikes disable portions of the U.S. economy. If you recall from COVID, our systems are extremely vulnerable. Businesses running “just in time” inventory means small hiccups in the system can cause cascading effects. Sustained strikes would face deep resistance, but they could swing communities currently on the fence, like the business community, which already is concerned about Trump’s temperamental nature. Trump’s own policies might make these conditions much easier. If he really does mass deportations, the economic injury might be fatal. In another scenario I explore another strategy of taking advantage of a Trump overreach. Autocrats overplay their hands. And in this imagined scenario, Trump overreaches when he attempts to force autoworkers to stop building electric vehicles. UAW workers refuse and keep the factories running. Eventually he’s unable to stop them — but in the process he’s publicly humiliated. A very public loss like this can cause what Timur Kuran calls an “unanticipated revolution.” He noted many incidents where political leaders seem to have full support, then suddenly it evaporates. Kuran’s analysis reminds us to look at Trump’s political weakness. Political hacks like Lindsay Graham appear to be sycophants — but if given the chance to turn their knife in his back, they might. This means exposed political weaknesses could quickly turn the many inside Trump’s campaign against him. That feels far away from now. But all these remain possibilities. Practicing this future thinking and seeing into these directions gives me some hope and some strategic sensibilities. On the days when I can’t sense any of these political possibilities (more than not), I zoom out further to the lifespans of trees and rocks, heading into spiritual reminders that nothing lasts forever. All of the future is uncertain. But using these things, we’re more likely to have a more hopeful future and experience during these turbulent times.

#uspol #us election #trump #waging nonviolence #daniel hunter

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last-blue-hours · 4 months ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/last-blue-hours/758882672634445824/i-guess-i-have-to-formally-announce-that-im?source=share

Taekookers and Jungkook solos seem to be under this misconception that Jikookers are all Jimin-biased lol. I've realized this being so long in the fandom. But when I was new and getting to know BTS, Jungkook was the first one I gravitated towards and soon I became a Jungkook biased ARMY. And it was through focusing on JK and watching non-edited content + little clips that revolved around him that I picked up on something between him and Jimin.

I didn't stumble upon shipping spaces or videos that could have altered my perception, it was all authentic. And mind you that time every little BTS content had Taekook at the forefront of the things I used to see and was recommended the most. But whenever I'd watch him with Jimin, the way Jungkook himself would behave towards Jimin (whom I didn't even like then), I'd feel so weird, like I'm watching moments between two people that I'm not supposed to witness. Even the moments when he'd push him away, I saw only myself when I was in love with my ex-girlfriend who wasn't my girlfriend but just a close friend then. Everything that JK is, his personality, is so much like myself, I feel. And that's a major reason why he's my bias, other than the fact that he's so talented.

Definitely not every Jikooker is Jimin biased, in fact from my perspective I'd say quite a number of them are Jungkook biased. And I think the Jm biased Jikookers have gotten even less now because of what happened with Face and Seven (people feeling the company sabotaged Jimin while JK got heavy promotion). A lot of the people who became PJMs in 2023 are ex-jikookers.

I’ve known bts and somewhat witnessed the inner workings of their fandom for a very long time. Although for some time, I have seen myself in the category of a lurker. I didn’t have the time to actively be a part of it. Now, I have crawled out of the woodworks, on time for the travel show.

It was jimin who caught my eye but it was jungkook, whose introversion, so similar to mine that I saw a sort of fondness growing and settling deep within me. I was there when km’s relationship began to take shape, something very undefinable still since we’re just spectators but I can pinpoint the exact moment when a lot of people could just tell. We just knew. Jungkook was the more obvious one, his face shows a map of his heart. We didn’t have jeonlus or satellite jeon for no reason, they were exaggerated but it was fun while it lasted. And what you said about your experience with your ex-girlfriend (I hope what you had with her was good for however long it lasted), the more you feel for someone, the more overwhelming it is to be around that person. Often times people misinterpret it as something malicious, which is what happened with Jungkook. And the kid was also going through a very sensitive developmental and transitional phase of his life. People are still unkind to that Jungkook.

I don’t like saying this but so many are in some ways living vicariously through km’s relationship while having an internal struggle as they project their own insecurities onto it. It’s such a shame how misery is thriving in these spaces on both sides. And why many jm biased jjkers have become solo stans. Another reason being, as you pointed out, how hybe handled jimin and jungkook’s solo debut. Hybe proved to be very incompetent while handling jimin. And the resources they did give Jungkook, it was to push an idea of a certain image, a regurgitated image of a popstar we have seen being already exhausted in the music industry. They didnt get the memo of what made Jungkook golden. That’s just what was off about the whole album. I’d like a better creative team for him.

And I do think a lot of jjkers are just people who are equally interested in jungkook and jimin as individuals. But yes there are a lot of jungkook biased jjkers. Us.

#shin answers #jikook #jungkook #jimin

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smilesrobotlover · 1 year ago

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AO3

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Chapter 2- ten-years-old is a big deal

“There’s been three reports of a missing person in the past week.”

Zelda looked at the captain who was dropping papers on the table, her advisor and husband, Edmund, all stared blankly at the mess.

“That would make twenty-three missing persons this month, I think it’s safe to say that this is alarming, hm?”

The captain glared at Zelda’s advisor, who had been brushing off the disappearances as nothing serious. The advisor would say that disappearances happen all the time, and that there was nothing they could’ve done, but the captain was determined to persuade him. Zelda picked up a paper and skimmed over it. This was a woman who lived in Kakariko village, she just opened up her clothes shop there. She glanced at another paper, this one was about an older man, who was working at Lake Hylia. He worked on carriages, canons, or anything that needed fixing. Zelda hummed as she compared the two reports of the missing people, not finding much similarities between them.

“This is certainly alarming,” Zelda’s advisor said almost mockingly.

“Captain Hoz,” the prince consort of Hyrule started, ignoring the advisor’s rude tone, “are there any connections between these missing people that we can use to find them?”

Captain Hoz sighed and sat down. “The only connection I could find was that these people disappeared when they were traveling across Hyrule. That tailor from Kakariko? She was visiting home in Castle town. The handy man down in Lake Hylia was traveling to Gerudo desert to work on a home. The Goron from Death Mountain was heading to Zora’s domain for a vacation. None of these people were seen again.”

Zelda frowned and Edmund sighed. That sounded about right considering the other twenty reports sitting on her desk.

“This is tragic for sure,” the advisor said rather indifferently, “but what do you expect us to do about it?”

Hoz looked at him with disgust. “We look for these people of course! And find who’s responsible!”

“We do not have the resources to search for these people. We’re busy enough providing food and other necessities for our citizens,” the advisor stated, looking bored.

“If we don’t do something then we won’t have citizens to take care of! We need to save these people!” Captain Hoz rebutted.

“And who will save them? Hm? The hero of Hyrule? He’s been very useful lately,” the advisor said sarcastically, giving Zelda a look that made her skin crawl.

“The knights of Hyrule will save them! That’s why we exist!”

Zelda heard Edmund snort a little and she cringed internally. He was the second prince of Labrynna, a kingdom that was known for its military. Though he didn’t lead the army, he was involved with the battles Labrynna had, until the arranged marriage happened. When he came to Hyrule, he was unimpressed with the cowards that called themselves knights here. Some of the men, like Captain Hoz, took their jobs seriously, but they were so scarce that it didn’t make a difference. Captain Hoz glared at Edmund and stood back up.

“I’ve been training my men vigorously, your highness, I promise you, we can save these people.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. “Have your men faced terrifying monsters and kept their heads on their shoulders? Have your men faced death and walked it off? For a kingdom that is built on courage, there sure are a lot of cowards—“

“Enough!” Zelda stood up and glared at her husband. She turned to Hoz who was red from fury. “Captain, what exactly do you need to find these people?”

“Uh, I’ll need men, of course. Maybe around ten. It might depend on what is causing these disappearances.”

“I can have you take five men with you, but my advisor is right, we are spread thin, so you’ll have to make do.”

Captain Hoz sighed and bowed his head. “Thank you, my queen. I’ll make plans as soon as possible. These people will be found.”

“Thank you captain,” Zelda gave a nod back, “is there anything else that needs to be discussed?”

“No, that is all my queen,” Hoz gave another bow.

“There’s nothing I can think of,” the advisor muttered.

Edmund only shook his head. The queen nodded.

“Then you are all dismissed. Thank you.”

Hoz and the advisor stood up and silently walked out of the room, and Zelda glared at Edmund, who was casually leaning back in the chair. He glanced over at her.

“What?”

“Throwing insults at my kingdom was unnecessary.”

“They’re not insults, they're observations. You can’t deny that your army is nothing special.”

“No, but calling them cowardly and weak is unfair. You don’t know what some of these men went through. Captain Hoz fought hard to get where he is and I trust him. He’s one of our best.”

Her husband rolled his eyes again. “Fine, so the captain is good, that doesn’t say anything about the rest of your army.”

Zelda stared at him for a moment before gathering the papers. “I suppose not,” she muttered, wanting to end the conversation. Edmund sighed and walked over to her, resting his hand on her shoulder which made her freeze.

“Look, I’m sorry that I insulted Hoz. He is without a doubt, one of the best. But this seems like a serious situation and I feel like you’re not taking it as seriously as it sounds.”

Zelda glared daggers into him and he backed up, his hands up defensively.

“Don’t be upset with me dear, I’m just saying that Labrynna would’ve had this problem fixed within a week.”

I don’t care what Labrynna does.” She spat, and she turned back to the papers, trying to get Edmund to leave her alone. He was silent, but he didn’t move.

“Why don’t you send your… hero to do the job? From what I’ve heard, he’s a one man army,” he asked, and Zelda looked up to stare at the double doors in front of her. She has called for Link whenever Hyrule needed help. In fact, she called all of the resistance. They’ve worked together and have helped Hyrule in a way that Zelda couldn’t. But no one knew who Link really was, nor what he looked like thanks to his refusal to be public, so the people, especially the nobles, figured that Link was a fake, or a lazy man. Though she and Link didn’t get along, it made her sick. He suffered so much for Hyrule, and that was how they repaid him?

“Zelda, why don’t you send your famous hero to do the job?” Edmund repeated, and Zelda spun around, her frustration getting the best of her.

“I will consider it. Now get out while I organize this mess.”

Edmund glared at her and left the room, leaving Zelda alone. She collapsed in her chair, already exhausted even though it was morning. There was so much to do, so much to worry about, so much complaining that was done. Even though she was raised to do this work since birth, she still felt like she didn’t know what she was doing. She looked down at the papers on the table and sighed, grabbing some blank paper and a quill. She wouldn’t be able to search for the people herself, and she knew that Hoz would need all the help he could get, so she decided to reach out to the only people that she could trust.

The resistance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Kori! Come up for breakfast!”

The little twilian rubbed his eyes open, looking at his room in the basement. It was dark, and it took him a moment to adjust to the light shining from the door that led upstairs, where his father looked down at him.

“Heeeyyy sleepy head. Come on, it’s time to get up.”

Kori groaned at the light and tried to snuggle up more in his blankets.

“Oh no ya don’t. Get up Kori.”

The twilian groaned again, burying his face more into the blankets. The blankets were so warm… and he was so comfy…

He felt two hands grab him and he squealed as he was thrown over his dad’s shoulder.

“NOOOOO! Let me go! I wanna sleeeeeep!” Kori cried, but his father did not listen as he climbed up the ladder, and Kori hissed as the bright sun assaulted his eyes.

“Oh quit bein’ dramatic.”

His dad set him down near the fire where breakfast was cooking, the desire to sleep more melting away as he grew hungry. He looked at the pan over the fire, staring at the food cooking on top of it.

“What is it?”

“Eggs of course!” his father grabbed a plate and dished up some of the food to give to Kori.

“Eggs! I love eggs! We only ever have them everyday!” Kori joked sarcastically, shoveling his breakfast into his mouth.

“Oh complain about the breakfast all ya want you rascal. But luckily for you I have a great supper planned!”

“What are you making?” Kori asked, his mouth full.

“Only your favorite meal ever! Pumpkin soup!”

Kori gasped. He loved his father’s pumpkin soup. The thought of eating the pumpkin soup suddenly made the eggs tasteless and bland.

“Bleh, if only if it were supper time right now.”

“Hey now, I don’t need to make the soup tonight,” his father waved his utensil around, a teasing smile on his face. “I can just save it for later or give aaaall of it to grandpa Rusl and Colin and—“

“No! Don’t do that! I’m sorry papa thank you for the eggs now please don’t give away my supper!”

His father chuckled and ruffled his boy’s hair. “I’m just teasin’ ya, I would never do that.”

Kori giggled and ate his eggs a little more gratefully.

“Why are you making the soup anyways papa? You only make it for like… holidays and stuff.”

His father raised an eyebrow at Kori. “You don’t know? A little birdie told me that a certain child is turning 10 today.”

Kori chewed for a little bit before the realization hit. His birthday… It was today! How could he not know that?

“My birthday! I’m turning 10!” Kori shouted, waving his fork around.

“Hey now, don’t make a mess!” His father scolded, but he gave a light chuckle after Kori put his fork down, “you’re a full decade old! Isn’t that somethin’? How do you feel?”

Kori giggled and started to focus.

“Not much different really.”

His father chuckled and ruffled his hair.

“Give it a few years, you’ll feel older,” he said with a wink. After they finished Kori’s birthday breakfast, his father slapped his knees and stood up. “Welp, you ready to herd some goats?”

Kori frowned at his father. “It’s my birthday! I don’t wanna herd goats!”

“But farm work doesn't stop for birthday boys, Kori.”

Kori crossed his arms and pouted at his father. They stared each other down for a few moments before his dad started laughing.

“Alright alright. I’ll let you have today.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Go play with the other kids, I don’t care. Happy birthday Kori.”

“YEAH!” Kori shot up and ran outside before his father could say anything else. He practically jumped down the ladder, gave Epona a pat on the snout, and ran into the village where everyone was. He jogged around Fado’s house, ran quickly past Beth’s parent’s house, slowing down to a halt when he saw his grandpa Rusl standing outside his own home, reading something. He crouched down and smiled. Target spotted.

Kori moved around so he would be in his grandpa’s blind spot, then he ran as quietly as he could, ready to jump him, until his grandpa turned around and gave him a stern look, which stopped Kori dead in his tracks.

“And what do you think you’re doing young man?” He asked, his hands on his hips. Kori looked down awkwardly.

“I wasn’t gonna do anything!”

“Really? You weren’t plannin’ on tackling my legs?”

“Noooooooo….”

His grandpa glared at him for a moment, then let out a laugh. “Oh it’s never a dull moment with you Kori. Good morning kid.”

Kori giggled and hugged his grandpa, and he received a tight hug in return.

“So, Kori,” grandpa Rusl knelt down to look him in the eyes, “I hear it’s your birthday yeah? What do you have planned for today?”

“Well papa said that I don’t have to do my chores today! So I was hoping to play with…” His eyes moved over to spot his uncle exiting the house. “UNCLE COLIN!”

His uncle looked over to where Kori was sprinting towards him. “Wooooah hey now slow down or else you’ll—”

Kori tackled him to the ground, hugging him tightly as he laid there. Grandpa Rusl chuckled and walked towards them.

“Uncle Colin! It’s my birthday and I don’t have to do my chores! Wanna play?”

Colin rubbed his head and looked down. “I’d love to Kori, but I do need to do my chores.”

Kori’s smile dropped. “Aw what? Why?”

Colin sat up, with Grandpa Rusl taking Kori off of him and helping him up. “It’s not my birthday,” he explained simply, looking at Grandpa Rusl who nodded.

“What about auntie Rela? Can she play?”

“Sorry Kori, she also has chores to do,” Grandpa explained. “But she’ll be done soon.”

“Aw… but I wanna play now!”

Colin knelt down and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe Beth or Talo could play with you!”

Kori looked down, contemplating this. Beth was fun to play with, but she was taking over the shop and was always busy, not to mention her scary parents who didn’t like him. And Talo was also fun but sometimes he was gone and his dad didn’t like him all that much. Malo was closest to his age but Malo hated everyone so he didn’t want to play with him. But it didn’t hurt to try. “I guess I’ll see if they can play…” he finally said.

Colin smiled, guilt clearly written on his face. “I’m sorry kiddo. I’ll try to get done as soon as possible.”

“Ok.” Kori gave the two of them another hug and ran to Talo’s house. He’d have better luck with him anyways. When he ran to the house with the water wheel he stopped at the smell of something sweet. He saw a pie on a windowsill and gasped. It must’ve been pumpkin pie, which Pergie made occasionally. He ran over to where the pie was and stared at it, mouth watering as the smell got stronger.

“Excuuuuuse me!”

Kori flinched at the sudden entrance of Pergie, who was standing protectively over her pie. Kori put his hands behind his back and shrunk a little, trying to look innocent.

“Were you thinking of eating my pie?” Pergie asked, resting against the windowsill.

“Noooo…”

“You do know I’ve been spending all morning making this right?”

“Yeaaah.”

“So I wouldn’t want someone to mess with it before it’s ready, right?”

Kori looked down, then at Pergie, then at the pie. Drool dropped out of his mouth and he wiped it away, embarrassed. Pergie let out a hearty laugh and patted his head.

“Oh you sweet little stinker. Here, I can give you a slice.”

Pergie cut a small slice of her pie and handed it to Kori on a plate. Kori gasped at the random gift and smiled at her.

“Happy birthday, Kori.”

“You remembered my birthday?”

“Well you never let me forget,” Pergie teased, poking his nose. Kori giggled at the gesture and started to eat the pie with Pergie watching.

“What are you doing here anyways boy?”

“My papa said that I don’t have to do my chores so I was wondering if Talo wanted to play.”

“Oooh…” Pergie tapped the windowsill and clicked her tongue. “Talo left this morning to Kakariko dear.”

“Aw what? What’s he doing there?”

“Delivering our pumpkins to the folks there of course!” Pergie leaned closer to him, a teasing look on her face. “He’s also wantin’ to court the girl there, so he’s there for that as well.”

Kori stared at Pergie and nodded, not at all understanding what she meant.

“If you want, you could play with Malo!” She turned around and called for her youngest son. “MALO! Get over here!”

Kori frowned and put the plate on the windowsill. He did not want to play with Malo, and when Malo showed up, he could tell that he didn’t want to play either.

“Malo! It’s Kori’s birthday! Why don’t you two play games together!” Pergie suggested for the two boys. Malo glared at his mother.

“Mom, I’m taking care of my shop, I don’t have time to play,” he mumbled, annoyed. Kori has heard Malo talk about the three shops he’s opened up several times whenever he tried to hang out with him. He never understood any of it.

“Malo, I know how much you love to play shop, but you should play with the other kids!”

Malo groaned and glared at Kori. Pergie has always tried to push her son to socialize and make friends, but Malo took his job very seriously. Kori smiled at Pergie politely and stepped back.

“I’m actually gonna go see if Beth can play… thanks for the pie!”

“Oh, wait, Malo go with him!” Pergie gestured for Malo to follow him but he just rolled his eyes and walked away. Kori took that as a sign to run towards where Beth lived.

“You have a great birthday sweet boy!” He heard Pergie yell after him, and he turned and waved at her, smiling.

Pergie used to scare Kori when he was younger. She clearly feared him and thought he was strange, not liking it whenever Talo hung out with him. But as Kori got older, he noticed that Pergie got kinder towards him, being sweet and caring towards him whenever he lingered near their house. The same couldn’t be said about Sera though, Beth’s mother.

Everyone was pretty hostile towards Kori, but Sera in particular has been very cruel towards him. Beth was a blast to be around and happily watched Kori when he needed to be watched. But Sera believed that Kori was a demon, here in Ordon to hurt her daughter. His father and grandpa told him that monsters hurt the kids in Ordon, so they were paranoid about anything different, but Kori couldn’t help but be scared of Sera. He was terrified that she would hurt him because of her own fear. Beth’s influence always helped calm her mother down, but Kori still felt her distrust towards him. He stopped in front of Beth’s home and took a deep breath, praying that it was just Beth in there. He opened the door and peeked through the crack, seeing both Beth and Sera behind the counter. He went to quickly leave before he was noticed but Beth called out to him.

“Kori! Is that you?”

He stopped and poked his head further into the home. They seemed to have been deep in conversation; Beth was smiling at him while Sera stared at him coldly.

“It is you! Hi there!” Beth leaned against the counter and gave him a grin. “How are you? Heard you’re turning ten today, right?”

Kori nodded quietly, glancing at Sera who wasn’t moving.

“What’re you doing here? Did Link give you money to buy the famous slingshot?” She gestured to the toy section where a slingshot sat. Kori was tempted, but he had no money.

“I was wondering if you wanted to play,” Kori he started, talking softly while occasionally glancing at Sera, “I don’t have to do my chores today.”

“Oh,” Beth got off the counter and looked at her mother who was scowling. “Sorry dear, I’m working right now. You can go play with the kitties though!”

Kori gasped. Beth and Sera’s cat went and got another cat pregnant, leaving them with adorable kitties. Beth had let him play with them before, but never alone.

“Beth,” her mother spoke up, a dark expression on her face.

“Mom, it’ll be fine, Kori knows to be gentle, right?” Beth gave Kori a look and he nodded.

“How do you know he won’t eat one of the babies?”

“Mom!”

Kori looked down, the words stinging. He hated how she saw him as a monster. Kori had sharp teeth, which was different from everyone else’s, but he’d never want to hurt anyone, let alone any kitties! He started to back away from the two, walking towards the door.

“I—um— wanted to play with someone not with the cats,” he lied, reaching for the handle, “I’m just gonna see if someone else wants to play, bye Beth!”

“Wait Kori—“ Beth called out for him but he snuck out of the room. He heard Beth and Sera erupt into an argument, but he chose to ignore them, nearly ramming into Beth’s father, Hanch.

“Oh, um….” Kori shrunk away from the short man. “Sorry.”

Hanch stared at him for a moment, his expression was always filled with anxiety, but he nervously smiled.

“Hi Kori. Happy birthday,” Hanch said before running into his home. Kori stared ahead very surprised as the nervous man always avoided Kori out of fear. He stared at the entrance to the clearing where his home was, knowing his father wasn’t home. He sighed not knowing what to do or who to hang out with. He glanced at the entrance to the Ordon Ranch and decided to head there to hang out with people he knew liked him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Link ran around on Epona, herding in the goats with Fado keeping any stragglers from running away. On Epona, the goats feared Link due to how big he looked, and they would obey him as he herded them in. Fado however didn’t need a horse since he was so tall. The goats would just see him and run away. Though Fado has always struggled herding in the goats, Link has noticed that with Link’s many absences, he’s gotten much better at doing it all on his own. He almost didn’t need Link anymore.

He sighed when all the goats were finally in the barn. Just like yesterday… and the day before… and the day before…

“Thanks for your help, Link!” Fado called to him and Link waved it off.

“Just doin’ my job.”

“Well you do a good job at it!”

Link smiled at his good friend and got off his horse, giving her a loving pat on the neck. Though Epona was a strong horse, he was worried about overworking her, especially since she was getting much older. He wished that Illia was still here so she could pamper her…

“Hoo boy, we got done in under a minute! Now what do we do?” Fado put his hands on his hips and looked at the ranch from inside the barn. “I feel like we can just lay around right now!”

Link gave a small smile but it quickly disappeared. Though it was a beautiful day, Link was already bored at the idea of sitting around. He walked out of the barn and looked around, noticing a little figure walking towards the ranch.

“Hey, isn’t that your little tot? I thought you said he wasn’t working today?” Fado asked, coming up from behind Link. Link shrugged and walked over to his son, whose head was hanging. When he got closer, Kori looked up and smiled at his father.

“What’s going on Kori? I thought you wanted to play?”

Kori shrugged. “Everyone is doing their chores today! They can’t play.”

Link frowned and patted his head. “Oh, I’m sorry Kori. They won’t be working all day though.”

“Yeah… but still…”

Link frowned and guilt started creeping in. He was hoping that he’d have a fun day, but he didn’t think about everyone else having to do their chores. He gave Kori a slight squeeze.

“Can I hang out with you until someone’s ready to play?” Kori asked.

“Of course, you can just watch me, you don’t need to work.”

“Thanks papa.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the day was fun for Kori. His aunt, Rela, finished her chores relatively quickly, sothey played together until the sun began to set, and everyone started to return to their homes for supper. Kori looked up from the tadpoles he was playing with and saw his father walking to his grandparent’s house, arms full of different ingredients. Kori jumped up and started sprinting towards him.

“We’re eating at gramma’s house?” Kori called out as he nearly rammed into his father’s legs.

“Hey! Kori! The reek fish ain’t easy to get at this time of year!” His father warned, dodging his hyper son. “And yes, we’re eating at gramma’s house this year, she has better cooking supplies than me anyways.”

“Will Midna be here?” Rela came running up to the two of them. Kori’s father gave a nervous smile.

“I guess we’ll see!”

Kori frowned. “Mom should be here!”

His father only shrugged. “I don’t know when she comes kiddo, but I did tell her to try to make it today, so we’ll see.”

Rela looked at Kori who only shrugged. His mother was from a different world, and according to his father, she had to do very important things there, so she couldn’t stay in Ordon. Kori wished that she could stay here though. He missed her everyday that she wasn’t here. What was worse was that he never knew when she was coming, she could be there everyday, or she could be gone for weeks. So it was just a guessing game for them. But he hoped she would be here. She usually was on his birthday.

Kori was bouncing off the walls from excitement when supper came close to being ready. The family were all together inside except for grandpa Rusl, his father and gramma chatting about boring adult stuff while he and Rela were playing, and the smell of the pumpkin soup made him restless. When his father was finally done with the soup, Kori was right by his side, eyeing it as if it were his prey.

“Spirits above, Kori, don’t make me spill this,” his father warned, setting the soup gently on the table while Kori practically hung on him. Gramma Uli set a cake down next to the soup, and Kori began vibrating with excitement even more.

“Sweet Ordona, I think he’s about to explode!” Colin chuckled, walking over to the table to help set things up.

“Yeah, I think so too, and there’s gonna be an accident if he doesn’t calm down.” His father dragged Kori away from the table as he reached for the food, and the little twilian pouted at his father.

“I just wanna look at it,” he said, making his eyes as big as possible.

“Yeah sure ya do. You can’t look at it until everything’s ready though.”

“But whyyyyy,” Kori leaned towards the table while his father nonchalantly held him in place.

“Sweet spirits above kid, I’ve never seen anyone get this excited about food.”

“Oh, Link,” Gramma Uli started, giving Kori a smile, “what’s there not to be excited about? There’s soup and cake! Though I am sorry that the cake has no icing this year, Kori.”

“No, ma it’s a good thing. I think Kori would literally explode if there was.”

“No I wouldn’t!” Kori shouted, and the family all laughed. His father dragged Kori back over to where Rela was playing, and sat him down.

“Just stay there ‘till things are ready, ok Kori?” His father insisted, and Kori pouted again, glaring at his goat plushie Billy. He was ravenous now from the smell of the food, and it was driving him mad. The door opened and Kori saw grandpa Rusl enter the home, and he jumped up and rammed into his grandpa’s legs.

“Ow– good goddesses Kori!” His grandpa yelled out as he nearly stumbled to the ground. Kori only buried his face into his legs and gave him a tight hug.

“Papa isn’t letting me eat my fooooood,” he complained, his voice muffled in grandpa Rusl’s pants.

“Oh?” Rusl quickly recovered from nearly having his legs taken out and gave Link a smirk. “Well that’s not fair, it’s his birthday.”

“Supper is not ready yet, pa!” Kori’s father rebutted. “And the soup is piping hot! It’ll burn his li’l tongue off and he won’t be able to eat anything for the rest of his life!”

Kori gasped and looked up at Rusl in horror.

“Will it really?”

Rusl rolled his eyes. “No. I mean yes your tongue will burn but it’ll be fine after a day. Quit scarin’ your kid Link!”

Kori’s father only shrugged and returned to setting up dinner. Grandpa Rusl began to walk over to the kitchen where gramma Uli was, but Kori stopped him.

“Is my mommy here?” He asked, and Rusl paused, looking away.

“Oh… no I haven’t seen her just yet.”

Kori sighed sadly. “She’s always here for my birthday. Why isn’t she here?”

“Oh, come now kiddo, I’m sure she’s just late or something. I doubt she’ll miss today.”

Kori rested his head against Rusl’s leg. “I hope so.”

Rusl stood there for a moment, playing with Kori’s hair as if to comfort him, but he finally moved towards the table, which Kori found to be completely set up, with a beautiful plate of rolls added to it.

“Supper’s ready,” his father announced, and Kori’s worry over his mother disappeared as he ran to his seat, nearly tipping it over as he sat in it. “Sweet Ordona kid, would it kill you to slow down?”

Kori’s grandparents both chuckled as they sat down, and Rela hopped into her seat next to Kori. Colin sat down next to Link, which left one seat empty for his mother. Kori sighed.

“Well then, let’s give thanks,” Uli said, and the others around the table bowed their heads. “Thank you Goddess Din for the earth you created, so that we may have a warm home together. Thank you Goddess Farore for the life you blessed the earth with, so that we may have this very meal before us. And thank you Goddess Nayru, for the wisdom you gifted to us, so that we may be able to prepare this meal, and so that we may grow stronger everyday. Thank you.”

The others muttered a thanks and Kori quickly grabbed a roll, dunked it in his soup, and shoved it all in his mouth. He chewed happily as the others watched in shock.

“Wha’?” He asked with his mouth full. His father gave him a look.

“Reaching across the table like that is rude, Kori. And so is talking with your mouth full.”

“Oh it’s his birthday, let him be a little feral today,” grandpa Rusl said, grabbing a roll for himself and digging into the meal. Kori’s father rolled his eyes with an amused smile on his face, and Kori couldn’t help but giggle.

“Ok fine, I’ll give you today, Kori,” he said with a smile, and the rest of the family helped themselves to Kori’s birthday supper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Link stared blankly at the empty seat beside him as everyone else ate. He finished rather quickly, an old habit he developed from his adventure, and all he could do was think about Midna. Her not being here worried him. She was a very stubborn person, and when she wanted to do something, she was going to do it, even if everyone else was against it. So there was no way that she would be missing Kori’s birthday, unless something happened. Link’s gaze was averted to Kori devouring his cake, and he rolled his eyes. Since when did he become such a messy eater?

“Kori, for Din’s sake slow down. I don’t want you to choke.”

Kori stopped for a moment and glared at him, gesturing aggressively at Link’s own bowl and plate.

“Hey, I know how to not choke on my food, alright?”

Kori rolled his eyes and Colin snorted.

“Remember the time you choked on a carrot—“

“Shut up Colin!”

The table erupted into laughter as everyone began making fun of Link.

“I told you to chew your food all the way, Link,” Rusl playfully poked Link’s arm as Link glared ahead, annoyed.

“Yeah, and yet he still couldn’t do that,” Colin joined in. “I had to try to get it outta you.”

Link shot Colin a smirk. “Yes, but if I remember correctly, your weak, noodly arms couldn’t do nothin’!”

“My arms weren’t weak and noodly! You’re just so dang thick!” Colin jabbed at Link’s ribs which caused him to yelp and flinch away, right into Rusl.

“Oi! Watch where you’re jumpin’, Link!” Rusl yelled and shoved Link back into his spot. The three of them erupted into loud laughter as they started to playfully shove and poke at each other, until Uli’s glare caught their eyes.

“Boys, not at the table,” she said in a low voice, and three men quickly calmed down and returned to eating.

“Geez, you guys are so annoying,” Rela grumbled, taking a sip of her water. Kori only giggled.

Link cleared his throat and kept his gaze low, and he glanced at Colin who was hiding his face.

“Colin started it,” he mumbled.

“I did not!”

“You did too.”

“Did not, you liar!”

“Boys!”

The two stopped as Uli glared at them, and they tried to hide their chuckling.

“Goddesses Link, your ten-year-old son is acting more mature than you are!”

Kori sat up straight and beamed at the praise, and Link couldn’t help but laugh. How embarrassing for him. The family returned to their more quiet supper when suddenly there came a knock to the door.

“I’ll get it!” Rela volunteered herself and hopped off her chair, jogging to the door. Link couldn’t help but be hopeful when Rela opened the door, but there was no one on the other side.

“Uh, what?” Colin muttered in a confused tone. Suddenly, a shadow jumped into the room, and Midna appeared in the middle.

“Hope you don’t mind me crashing this party?” She said in her sing-song voice, and Link couldn’t help but smile.

“MOMMY!” Kori yelled and rammed into her legs. Midna picked him up and showered him with kisses while he giggled.

“Midna! You’re here!” Rela exclaimed, and she hugged her legs. The rest of the family got up and greeted her, all happily chatting and giving her small hugs.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, I was… busy,” Midna explained, a strange look on her face when she said “busy”. Link brushed it off and walked up to her, and she pecked him on the lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Link smiled and kissed her back. Kori made a gagging sound and started to squirm out of Midna’s hold, and then two parents laughed.

“We saved you a seat, Midna!” Uli gestured to the chair next to Link’s. “I can warm up the soup so it’s nice and hot for you!”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I do! You’re a part of our family!”

Kori giggled and started to tug Midna towards the table.

“C’mon mommy! We can eat together!”

“Hold on now, Kori you’ve already eaten!” Link protested, but Uli and Midna gave him a look and he shut his mouth. Rusl chuckled and stood slightly behind Link, resting his hand on his shoulder.

“I was starting to get worried,” he muttered, quiet enough so that the ones at the table didn’t hear him.

“Yeah, me too,” Link sighed as he stared at Midna, a big smile on her face as she spoke with Kori. Rusl nudged him slightly towards the table.

“C’mon, let’s join them.”

#love at twilight #smiles writes #midlink #twilight princess #aaaaah #idk how I feel about this one. cant tell if I’m super tired rn #anyways I hope you like it #cant promise to update next month but I can try

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zvaigzdelasas · 11 months ago

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The US extended its claims on the ocean floor by an area twice the size of California, securing rights to potentially resource-rich seabeds at a time when Washington is ramping up efforts to safeguard supplies of minerals key to future technologies. The so-called Extended Continental Shelf covers about 1 million square kilometers (386,100 square miles), predominantly in the Arctic and Bering Sea, an area of increasing strategic importance where Canada and Russia also have claims. The US has also declared the shelf’s boundaries in the Atlantic, Pacific and Gulf of Mexico.[...]

Under international law, countries have economic rights to natural resources on, and under, the seabed floor based on the boundaries of their continental shelves.

“It’s a huge deal because it’s a huge amount of territory,” said Rebecca Pincus, director of the Polar Institute at the Wilson Center in Washington, which has devoted an entire web page to the ramifications of this week’s news. “It’s US sovereignty over the seabed floor, and so whether it’s seabed mining, or oil and gas leasing, or cables, or what have you, the US is announcing the borders of its ECS and will have sovereignty over those decisions.” The US State Department said that the development “is about geography, not resources.”[...]

While it’s unclear what materials, if any, can be exploited, the claims come as Washington seeks to boost access to so-called critical minerals that are necessary for electric vehicle batteries and renewable energy projects, industries the Biden administration has tagged as key national security concerns.[...]

More than half of America’s extended continental shelf — 520,400 square kilometers — stretches in a large wedge north of Alaska toward the Arctic Ocean, including an area that overlaps with Canadian claims to the seabed floor, according to the US statement. Another 176,300 square kilometers lies in the Bering Sea, between Alaska and Russia, but falls on the US side of the maritime boundary between the two countries. Canada and the US don’t have a maritime boundary agreement in the Arctic and establishing the US outer limits in the Arctic “will depend on delimitation with Canada,” the State Department said in its executive summary. Canada’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs didn’t respond to a request for comment. [...]

The decision to unilaterally delineate its continental shelf boundary, rather than to ratify UNCLOS and then submit a claim through the commission, may raise the ire of other countries, said Pincus at the Wilson Center. “I think a lot of other countries around the world are going to have thoughts about how the US has done this,” she said. It also may reduce the likelihood of the US ever ratifying the law since a major reason for doing so would have been to make a CLCS claim, she said.

23 Dec 23

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longitudinalwaveme · 2 months ago

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Twister---Fictober 2024

Day 13: “That’s Not the Point.”

“My weather wand is not a weapon! It was intended for humanitarian aid, not as a toy for you to sell to private military contractors,” Clyde Mardon insisted. Lex Luthor, the billionaire whose company was funding the majority of his research, gave him an oily smile.

“Dr. Mardon, when I agreed to fund your little experiment, it was on the basis that my company and I would profit from it—and I have decided that your climate controlling machine will be most profitable to Lexcorp if it is marketed as an international security measure. Humanitarian aid has its place, but it doesn’t bring in very much money,” he said.

“Mr. Luthor, when you started funding me, we signed a contract that gave me the right to determine when and how my device would be marketed by your company on the condition that company was the only one which would profit off of it. I’m fulfilling my end of the contract. I haven’t taken funding from any other company, and no other company has been given any access to my prototype. You will make a fortune from my weather wand, but not by marketing it as a weapon,” Clyde said. Lex Luthor’s eyes narrowed.

“Dr. Mardon, I don’t think you understand our relative positions. I have been pouring millions into your research. Nothing you have made would have been possible without my wealth. You, in effect, work for me. So if you know what’s good for you, you will sign off on my marketing plan for your invention and act like you never dreamed that the wand would be used for anything else,” Lex Luthor said coldly.

“And if I exercise my legal right to not sign off on your plans?”

“I will ruin your reputation so thoroughly that you will never be able to work in your field again.”

“Threaten me all you like, Mr. Luthor. I refuse to sign off on a marketing plan that would see my weather wand be used as an instrument of destruction.”

**************************************************************************

Eleven months after his fateful meeting with Lex Luthor, Clyde Mardon’s life had been pretty thoroughly destroyed. LexCorp had stopped funding his research two days after he refused to sign off on Luthor’s advertising plan, and, thanks to the relentless smear campaign Lex Luthor had launched against him, not a single company or university had offered to fund him in LexCorp’s stead. This wasn’t problematic as far as the prototype of the weather wand was concerned, since he already had all the supplies he needed to complete it, but it was definitely problematic as far as marketing and selling it was concerned. He simply didn’t have the resources to produce such an expensive device en masse.

What was more, since his funding had included an income for him as well as the resources for his research, when LexCorp had stopped funding him, it put him in need of finding a new job to pay the bills. This had seemed like it would be simple enough, but Lex Luthor had done such a good job of dragging his name through the mud that no one would hire him. Not laboratories, not universities, not even the high school in his home town—and they were desperate for a new science teacher.

After about two months of being rejected for every post he applied for, one of his old college professors had called him and somewhat apologetically offered him a janitorial position in the college’s labs, saying that he personally knew that Clyde hadn’t done any of the things that he had been accused of but that he hadn’t been able to convince the rest of the college board of that fact. It had taken a lot of arguing just to convince the college to offer him a job at all. Clyde, who had by that point been living off his meager savings for five months and so barely had 500 dollars left in the bank, had accepted the job offer.

And when his parents had learned that their golden boy was keeping a roof over his head by washing bunsen burners and scrubbing lab floors, he suddenly wasn’t their golden boy anymore. His mamá had burst into tears and wailed about how disappointed she was in him, and his papá had called him a failure and told him not to call them again until he had something to show for all the money they had spent on putting him through college. Since 95% of Clyde’s college tuition had been covered by scholarships, and he had paid the remaining 5% himself, it wasn’t particularly clear what money his papá was talking about, but he hadn’t brought that fact up. Reasoning with his papá when he was angry was an exercise in futility.

A few days later, Clyde had dropped by his parents’ house in the hope that his parents’ anger had blown over and that he would be able to patch things up with them. His papá had responded by telling him that a disgraced scientist wasn’t welcome on their property and then literally slamming the door in his face, and Clyde had been left with the knowledge that his parents, who had spent years living vicariously through his success, believed every lie Lex Luthor had told about him.

Ironically, the only member of his family who was still talking to him, and who had made it clear that he didn’t believe a word of Lex Luthor’s allegations, was the member of the family who had by far the most reason to want to believe the worst about him: his younger brother, Mark, who had grown up in his shadow and had been negatively compared to him by their parents more times than Clyde could count.

He still believed he had been in the right to refuse to see his weather wand sold to the highest bidder as a weapon, but besides an unviolated conscience, what did he have?

He had a younger brother who seemed to be perpetually in and out of jail, a dead-end job, and a prototype weather wand that he didn’t have the money to market or mass-produce.

So much for his grand plans to save the world.

****************************************************************************

“You’re going to turn me in?”

“I have to turn you in. It’s for your own good, Mark. You finish your time for burglary and pay your debts. They might even forget about this if you voluntarily—”

“You’re the only one I could come to. Clyde, please. I can’t go back!” Clyde knew why his brother was so afraid. The last time he had been incarcerated, Mark had been beaten to within an inch of his life, and that had been in jail. Now that he was on his third burglary conviction, he had been sentenced to prison. Clyde couldn’t blame Mark for being terrified, but all the same, he couldn’t harbor a fugitive on the run—-not even if that fugitive was his younger brother.

“Central City Police Department. Officer Chyre speakin’.”

“I can’t!” In a panic, Mark reached for the prototype weather wand, which had been gathering dust on a table for the past few months, but Clyde was closer to it and managed to grab it first. It lit up with electricity, and suddenly a lightning bolt snaked down out of the sky and struck his little brother.

“Marco! No!” Clyde exclaimed as he ran over to his brother. He hadn’t meant to hurt Mark! All he had wanted was to keep him from grabbing the wand!

Clyde’s panic only increased when he realized that his brother had gone into cardiac arrest, and he desperately started trying to perform what little he remembered of CPR.

It wasn’t enough. By the time the police showed up at the observatory, his brother was already dead.

“What happened here?” one of the officers asked. Clyde could understand why. Not only was he holding his prototype weather wand and cradling his brother’s dead body, but the lightning bolt he had accidentally summoned had torn a hole through his roof.

“I…I killed him. I killed my own brother,” he said weakly.

“How? I don’t see any obvious signs of injury,” the officer asked.

“With…with this,” Clyde replied. He waved the wand, and suddenly heavy rain started falling through the hole in the roof.

“What in the world is that thing?”

“It’s a prototype climate control device. It can summon up basically any kind of weather you can think of—wind, snow, sleet, hail—-and lightning. I struck my own brother with lightning, and it sent him into cardiac arrest.”

“Who are you? And who’s your brother?”

“I…I’m Dr. Clyde Mardon. My younger brother is Mark Mardon. He jumped a train that was supposed to be taking him to state prison for burglary a few hours ago, and turned up here a few minutes before I called you. I told him that I had to turn him in, and he panicked and grabbed for the wand—but I beat him to it. I just wanted to keep it away from him, but I guess….I guess I must have activated it somehow, because it brought down a lightning bolt and...and it killed him. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted to keep the wand away from him. He didn’t know what it was for. I never told him exactly what I was building and—and—and now he’s dead. I…I killed him.”

It didn’t occur to Clyde until he was handcuffed and sitting in the back of a patrol car that it was generally a bad idea to tell the police you’d killed someone.

**************************************************************************

Five months after his brother’s death, Clyde found himself in a prison cell. Not for murder—his brother had been a fugitive, and as such the death had been ruled as accidental, if not outright self-defense—but for reckless endangerment and possession of an unlicensed and obviously very deadly weapon. Clyde had tried to argue that the wand was a prototype, and hadn’t been designed for offensive use, but it had no effect. He had been found guilty, and, no doubt thanks to the way that Lex Luthor had destroyed his reputation, the judge had thrown the book at him. He’d been sentenced to two years in prison—nearly as long as the sentence Mark would have served for burglary.

***************************************************************************

When Clyde had started his prison sentence, he had assumed that his life would come to a very quick and messy end. After all, Mark had nearly been killed in jail, and he had assumed that the hardened criminals in prison would see him as an even easier target than his younger brother.

He had been wrong. The story of how he had electrocuted his brother had made the rounds in the prison before he had even arrived there, and most of the inmates instead treated him with a wary sort of respect. Even the ones who made derisive comments did so from a safe distance; evidently, they didn’t want to see if the “mad scientist” might be able to dream up a way to electrocute them, too.

As such, since Clyde obeyed the guards and kept his head down, he remained physically unscathed.

His mental state was another story. His parents came to visit him exactly once—to disown him. He was a convicted felon now, and they wanted nothing more to do with him.

“You’re worse than Marco ever was. At least we knew he would be a failure,” his mamá spat as the two of them left the prison.

Then, of course, there was the fact that he now had plenty of free time on his hands—free time with which to try, and fail, not to think about how he had killed the little brother who had adored him and about how thoroughly his life had fallen apart in only a few years. Some days, he succeeded. More often, he didn’t.

And being surrounded by criminals–-other criminals, really, since he was a felon now too—wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows. While they mostly respected/feared him enough to leave him alone, being constantly exposed to the anger and bitterness and envy and despair of the other prisoners fed his own negative emotions.

What was more, even the guards—and those among his fellow convicts who weren’t so bitter or ruthless as to be unpleasant to be around—-seemed to avoid socializing with him. Usually, when he tried to strike up a conversation, they would beg off the conversation, claiming that they wouldn’t be very interesting company for a prodigy who had earned a doctorate at twenty-one.

The one exception was a decidedly peculiar young man named Roscoe Dillon, an eighteen-year-old university student who had been convicted for getting into an altercation with a police officer after the officer in question had attempted to confiscate what he had believed to be a weapon but which had, in fact, been a top. Mocking rumors in the prison stated that, upon his arrest, the young man had claimed that tops would ensure that he would be a success as an engineer, because he had come up with a satellite design that was based on the “inner principles of tops”, and that this was why he had reacted so violently to the officer trying to take the top away from him.

What was definitely not a rumor, and had been broadcast on live television, was that Roscoe had gone to pieces during his trial, rocking back and forth, flapping his hands, and ultimately having a total emotional meltdown when his public defender had accidentally knocked the top he had brought with him to the trial off the table he had been seated at for the trial. Due to his obvious mental instability, the judge had sentenced him to six months in jail, but, after the young man tried to slice open his wrists with a shiv he had bought off of another prisoner, he had been transferred to state prison to serve out the rest of his sentence, on the basis of the fact that the prison had psychiatric medication on hand that simply hadn’t been available at the jail.

That medication had evidently worked to at least some extent, since he was emotionally stable enough now, but emotional stability wasn’t enough to protect him from the older and more aggressive inmates, who sneered that he was “a lunatic” and “retarded” and whispered that he belonged “in the loony bin, not prison”. A few of them even seemed to take a perverse delight in holding him down, stealing the tops he bought from the prison canteen, and destroying them in front of him.

He had tried fighting back once—and had promptly been sent to solitary when the others had claimed that he had attacked them because he was, quote, “a nutcase”.

Upon being released, he had sought out Clyde and struck up a conversation with him, on the basis of having heard that Clyde had a doctorate in meteorology. He professed his own fascination with science—in his case, engineering—and the two of them ended up having a very rewarding discussion about physics.

One conversation soon led to more, and, after a few weeks, Clyde and Roscoe had developed a friendship, or as close to a friendship as you could have in prison. While Clyde didn’t have the influence to protect Roscoe from the other inmates, he was someone for the younger man to talk to, and, even if roughly fifty percent of everything that came out of Roscoe’s mouth was related to tops in some way, Clyde was glad to listen. It helped him not think so much about how he had killed Mark, or about how he was a convicted felon and that his last hope of ever working in the field of meteorology again was now thoroughly dashed. What was more, a lot of what Roscoe talked about was genuinely interesting (even the chatter about the tops). In spite of his idiosyncrasies—Roscoe constantly rocked back and forth, would clamp his hands over his ears when things got too loud, could not stand the texture of the prison applesauce, and had trouble making eye contact—-he was also clearly brilliant, and had the makings of a great engineer in him. Since Roscoe had so clearly been unwell when he had committed his crime, Clyde hoped that he would still be able to become one someday.

Seven months into Clyde’s sentence, Roscoe was released. Clyde was relieved to see him leave—-prison was no place for a young man with his peculiarities—-but at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling a little abandoned. Who was he supposed to talk to for the next seventeen months?

***************************************************************************

When Clyde was released on parole after a year and a half behind bars, the idealistic young scientist had been replaced by a bitterly cynical ex-convict, one who didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was going to do with his life going forward.

His brother was dead. His parents had disowned him. All of his friends had been tied up in his career as a scientist—-and his life as a scientist was over. No one would even trust him to scrub lab floors now.

If I hadn’t had the foresight to buy the observatory while I was still being funded by LexCorp, he thought as he stepped out of the taxi that he had paid to take him to Big Water Lake, I wouldn’t even have a roof over my head.

That being said, it wasn’t much of a home. Everything was covered in dust and grime, and no one had patched the hole in the ceiling, so parts of the floor were waterlogged and growing mold. But until he found a job, he wouldn’t have the money to replace the damaged flooring or to repair the hole.

“Home, sweet home,” he muttered, and for a second he actually found himself wishing that he was still in prison. At least while he had been behind bars, he hadn’t had to worry about how he was going to support himself as a convicted felon.

************************************************************************

After three months of applying for every job he could find, no matter how overqualified he was for it, and being turned down every time, Clyde’s meager savings, most of which he had earned from the work he had done while behind bars, ran out.

A week after that, the heating, electricity, and plumbing at the observatory were shut off because Clyde hadn’t had the money to pay the utility bills, and, in desperation, Clyde took the one possession he had that still seemed to work—-his car—and drove himself to the neighborhood where he had grown up.

As his car made his way through the streets of Bridgeville, Clyde couldn’t help but morbidly wonder if anyone in the town that had put him on a pedestal and sung his praises when he was a teenaged prodigy would even be willing to hire him to rake their leaves. At this point, even that sounded too good to be true.

He pulled into his parents’ driveway and swallowed hard. The odds were good that this was just going to end in more embarrassing humiliation, but he had nowhere else to go. He stepped out of his car, hoping against hope that his parents would remember that they had loved him once, walked up to the front of the house, and knocked on the door.

“Claudio? What are you doing here?” his mamá asked.

“I…I need a place to stay. I've exhausted all of my savings, and the utilities at my home have been shut off because I can’t pay the bills. I want to support myself. I want to work— but I’ve been applying for jobs for months, and no one will hire me. Please, mamá —-I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Clyde pleaded. His mamá’s face softened.

“I’ll…I’ll ask my husband. But the decision is his, Claudio,” she said. She disappeared inside the house and came back a few minutes later with his papá.

“Why should I shelter a convicted felon?” he asked.

“I know you’re angry with him, Mattías. I am, too, but—well, look at him. He’s so thin,” his mamá said.

“And you’re willing to accept the disgrace of having him in our house, Paloma?”

“It’s better than turning him out to beg—and he is—he was—”

“He is not our son. We don’t have a son. But if it eases your mind, I’ll let him stay.” Clyde almost collapsed in relief.

“Thank you, papá,” he said quietly.

“I hope you don’t think that this is going to be some sort of a vacation. As long as you’re under my roof, you’ll be expected to take care of all the chores that need to be done. Once you find a job, you’ll turn over half your income to me until you earn enough money to move out. And you are not to address me as ‘papá’. I expect you to call me ‘Mr. Mardon’ or ‘sir’. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir. We’re clear,” Clyde replied weakly. It’ll only be until I get back on my feet, he told himself. I survived a year and a half in prison, I’ll be able to survive this, too.

*****************************************************************************

After two months at his papá’s beck and call, Clyde was at his wits’ end. He didn’t mind the work—he did, after all, owe his parents for letting him live in their house—but the constant criticism and insults were driving him up the wall, and were giving him a new appreciation for why Mark had run away from home. Few things were more demotivating than having someone respond to everything you did by saying it wasn’t good enough.

The final straw came one evening when Clyde had accidentally knocked over the coffee pot while cleaning the kitchen. His papá didn’t go on a tirade. He didn’t have to. Instead, he simply grabbed Clyde by the collar and said,

“You should have died with your brother. You’d be less of a burden to us if you had.” Clyde took the words like a blow, and, as he tried to fall asleep in his room—the room that had once belonged to Mark, and had originally been designed as a closet—-they kept circulating through his brain, over and over.

His own father wished that he was dead. Even though he had finally found a job and was paying his papá half of his salary, even though he had been working as his papá’s housekeeper for months without even so much as a “thank you”, even though he had shrugged off all of the complaints and the insults and the snide remarks, his father still wished that he was dead.

And given the wages he made, if he kept paying his papá half of his salary, it would be a decade before he was able to move out on his own. How was he supposed to survive a decade of constantly being told that he was a failure and an embarrassment?

Was this his papá’s way of punishing him for not being dead?

Unlike Mark, whose temper had flared quickly but would be gone in a day, Clyde took a very long time to lose his cool—but his anger burned even longer.

And the realization that his papá was deliberately punishing him for something he couldn’t control, after a few years of being punished again and again and again for having had the nerve to stand up to Lex Luthor, was what finally pushed Clyde over the edge into a deadly fury.

He had wanted to help people. He had wanted to save the world. And he had been rewarded for that by losing everything—his reputation, his job, his parents, his freedom, his clean record, his independence, and, most of all, his little brother. The one who had died at his hands in a horrible accident. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

But he would make it right. With his wand, he had the power to make it right. He couldn’t bring his brother back, but he could make the world change so that no one else would ever die.

Lex Luthor had wanted the wand to be a weapon. Clyde had been sent to prison on the assumption that that was what it was. So Clyde would earn his sentence by making it into a weapon—a weapon he would use to force the world to change.

*****************************************************************************

Two days after he left his parents’ house, Clyde Mardon broke into the Central City branch of LexCorp, where his prototype weather wand had been sent when he was arrested, and escaped with both the wand and several thousand dollars.

A week after that, a struggling tailor with an unusual sideline received a fat check and a request for a costume that would suit a man who could control the weather in the mail.

And four days after that, the Weather Wizard struck downtown Central City with the force of a hurricane. After giving a demonstration of his power by destroying the LexCorp building (after making sure that all the employees made it out of the building), he gave the city a choice: they could either turn over the city to him voluntarily, and let him fix the mess that it had gotten itself into, or be forced into it by the power of the elements themselves.

And then the Flash had shown up.

Clyde hadn’t wanted to fight him. The Flash was a hero. They were on the same side!

“You’re threatening to destroy the city. I don’t see how that’s very heroic.”

“I’m not trying to destroy the city. I’m trying to save it from itself.”

“By destroying buildings and threatening innocent lives?” Clyde felt a pang of guilt. True, he had ensured that everyone had been evacuated from the LexCorp building before he had destroyed it, but what if someone had been trapped inside? He already had his brother’s death on his conscience. He didn’t think he would be able to handle any more.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. I want to save the world. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. But because of the man who owns the building I destroyed, this is the only way I can do it. He took everything else from me.” The Flash’s eyes went wide.

“You…you’re not just some random crook. You’re the man who built the weather wand. You’re Dr. Clyde Mardon,” he said. Clyde laughed.

“‘Doctor’? It’s been so long since anyone called me that, I almost forgot I had the title.”

“Dr. Mardon, please. Think about what you’re doing! Can’t you see how insane this is?”

“If I’m so insane, Flash, what do you suggest I do? Go back to slaving away for the parents who wish I’d died with my brother? Go back to a life where I’ll never be able to help anyone else—because I can’t even help myself?”

“Dr. Mardon, I can understand why you’re upset, but that doesn’t give you the right to lash out at everyone else.”

“I’m not lashing out at them. I want to help them. I’m going to fix things, so that no one ever has to go through what I went through. So that no one else will ever have to die like my brother died,” Clyde insisted.

“And you think you can accomplish that with threats? By destroying buildings?”

“Threats seem to work very well for Lex Luthor.”

“So you’re going to sink to his level?”

“I have to. The only thing men like him understand is brute force. And if you stand in my way—I’ll have to deal with you in the same way.”

And Clyde had tried. That was how he learned that the Flash could run faster than lighting.

*****************************************************************************

For the next few years, the Weather Wizard operated alone. While he was respected in the criminal underworld for his power and ambitions, most criminals were wary of joining his “crusade”, and, among those who did want to join, most of them were far too fond of casual cruelty. Force was a regrettable necessity on the path to saving the world, but it was certainly not something that should be indulged in for one’s own gratification.

And working on his own meant that he would never risk getting close to anyone; would never accidentally kill another person he cared for in the way that he had killed Mark.

But a blustery fall day changed all that.

As Clyde was making some needed adjustments to his weather wand, he suddenly heard voices coming from outside of the apartment that he had rented.

“You sure about this guy, Dillon? I’ve seen him on the news enough to know he’s powerful, but word on the street is that he’s all wrapped up in some mission to fix the world.”

“Quite sure. I met him during my first stint in prison, and I assure you that he will make an excellent addition to our group.” Clyde identified the second voice as belonging to Roscoe Dillon, the odd young man he had befriended in prison many years ago, and who had gone on to become the supervillain known as the Top. What was he doing here?

“And you sure he ain’t gonna cause trouble?”

“I shouldn’t think he would. He was very kind to me, and he is extremely intelligent and competent.”

“Fine. Then let’s make the pitch.” There was a loud knock on his door, and Clyde walked over to it and opened it. Standing on the other side was Roscoe Dillon, who wasn’t quite as baby-faced as Clyde remembered him being, and a man whose blue glasses allowed Clyde to identify him as Captain Cold.

“You the Weather Wizard?”

“I am.”

“I’m Captain Cold, and this is the Top. Apparently, he’s met you before, and, since we’re looking to expand our operations, he suggested that we invite you to join our group. We call ourselves the Rogues. Are you interested?”

“I don’t think you understand. I don’t do what I do because I want money or power. That’s not the point of being the Weather Wizard,” Clyde said.

“Right, right. You do it to save the world, or some stupid crap like that. But that don’t mean that you can’t use a team to watch your back while you do it,” Captain Cold said gruffly.

“And what do you get out of this? What do you want in exchange for ‘watching my back’?” Clyde asked.

“You watchin’ ours. Face it, we can all use all the help we can get against the Scarlet Speedster,” Captain Cold said.

“I do hope that you will at least consider joining us. I have a great deal of respect for your intellect, and it would be nice to have someone to talk to about engineering,” the Top added.

“I’m not sure you really want me to join. I seem to bring very bad luck to the people I care about,” Clyde said quietly. The Top cocked his head.

“Curious. You brought me nothing but good luck when we were in prison together. If it hadn’t been for you, I do not think I would have made it out alive.”

“I suppose that’s true—but…but…”

“But what?”

“I loved my brother Mark more than anyone in the world. I wanted only the best for him—and I ended up being the one to kill him. I…I won’t be able to live with myself if it happens again.”

“Is that all you’re worried about? Doc, all us Rogues are more than capable of protectin’ ourselves. You ain’t gonna cause no problems we haven’t seen before.”

“In that case, I will join on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“My weather wand is a weapon, but it is not one to be used for the sake of casual cruelty. I use it to destroy, when necessary, and to delay the Flash—but not to kill. Not when I already have blood on my hands.” Captain Cold grinned.

“Then you’ll fit in just fine. I have a policy against lettin’ my guys kill. I’m a common thug, but even I got standards—and I ain’t got no time for anyone who thinks that butcherin’ civilians makes ‘em look big. You got yourself a deal.”

“Welcome to the Rogues, Dr. Mardon.”

#flash comics #flash rogues #weather wizard #clyde mardon #captain cold #the top #the flash #barry allen #alternate universe #fictober24

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